


Same As It Never Was

by justira, seventhe



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Incest, M/M, Magic Meta, Meta, Multi, no I am not going that way, no seriously this fic is freaking long we are not kidding, oh shit it's a long final fantasy fic get in the car!, sqwhale, suddenly bechdel, the fandom hell bus has arrived honk, we ship everyone/kiros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 72,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justira/pseuds/justira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/seventhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rinoa's gone public as a Sorceress and is campaigning for Timber's independence, Laguna's steering Esthar's re-emergence, Galbadia won't give up, Squall's dealing with the political fallout as Garden Commander -- and in case no one has enough on their plates, something's wrong with the Sorceress-Knight Bond. When terrorists attack Timber in the middle of Squall and Rinoa's argument over where the new Garden should go -- Timber or Esthar? -- they decide to take a break, hoping that if they can sort out the politics in their separate spheres, they can come back and sort through the quietly desperate mess of their private lives and repair their Bond.</p><p>Sorceresses still make the world nervous and Galbadia won't let Timber go; Esthar needs to come out of hiding and Garden needs to decide its place in the world. Four lives are unraveling -- but maybe, between them, they can find the answers...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, Commander, sir,” the waiter said over Squall's shoulder, “but we don’t have that particular vintage – our sincere apologies. Can I recommend another bottle – on the house, of course?”

  
Squall tried not to grit his teeth- _too_ hard, anyway, because they were already grinding a little at the waiter’s placating, admiring, _sorry-to-your-famous-personage-please-be-kind_ tone. He glanced up. Rinoa was smiling at him, that smile of hers that carried beaming wattage like a Thundaga to the chest, and even though it _still_ made his heart skip a beat he could read in it what neither of them was saying: her hesitation playing across her face, the tense strain of her smile even as his own lips quirked back in response.

“Not a problem,” he said, aware that his voice was gruff and sounded irritated; maybe everyone would assume he was aggravated about the _wine._

The waiter bobbed his head in some kind of nod-bow, which did serve to siphon a little of Squall’s irritation away from Rinoa and onto the waitstaff of Felicia’s in general, a blanket of annoyance stretching from wall to wall. The waiter left, and silence fell, again; Rinoa fidgeted with her napkin, and Squall took his glare back to the tablecloth.

"Did you really want that particular bottle?" Rinoa asked, only a little tentative, and Squall knew _she_ at least was wondering how much of his anger was directed across the table; he could feel the query in her words, and it only frustrated him more, the tingling sense of hearing more than she said when she spoke.

"Well, it's the only one I knew anything about." His admission made her smile, a little, like she tended to do at his wry jokes; the temptation of that little smile had brought those out in him more and more until even Selphie had accused him of hiding a sense of humor underneath his uniform. "I don't really care about that, though. It's the..." He trailed off, waving a hand at the doors in the back, where a small but sufficient gaggle of waiters and busboys had gathered to gawk. "All of that."

Rinoa's smile turned warm. She understood; she'd understood from the beginning what his awkward aborted hand-gestures all meant, an interpersonal skill Squall still found himself disbelieving on bad days. "Come on, Squall. I think the savior of the world deserves a free bottle of wine every now and then."

She was teasing, but the joke fell a little flat between them, skewered on Squall's irritation and the tension in the air. It had been an argument for months, now, their differing opinions on how to deal with their own sudden fame; Rinoa had decided to carefully cultivate a public image, whereas Squall wanted nothing more than to take the titles of Commander and Knight and hide both under a giant pile of paperwork, preferably guarded by Cerberus. "Squall," Rinoa's voice tripped into the silence, soft again, awkward and urgent, "I didn't – I didn't mean–"

Squall looked across the table at her. Her eyes were kind, but careful. Rinoa had started to carry with her a certain hesitation, these days, especially around him. It both alarmed and worried him, because Rinoa was not a hesitant person, had never been: she'd always been exuberantly impulsive, careless of her own safety and pride, amused by her mistakes. She'd carried _him_ away like a force of nature. To see her here, weighing her own words, made something slow turn in his stomach. He couldn’t label what had changed, or why, only that it had, and he wondered whether she was trying to be helpful, or if she was just sick of his company.

He'd been so lost in his thoughts; her eyes had turned cautious, and he recognized the concern Rinoa carried in her face right before she started to say something he would, inevitably, argue with – "Let's just wait," Squall interrupted, gesturing again at the crowd of observers gathered by the kitchen doors. He knew they'd have to continue the argument eventually, but... he'd really wanted to have a calm and uneventful dinner for once, without any reminders that they were anything more than two people at dinner. Sometimes, Squall thought grumpily, these roles they wore felt like foreign uniforms, like the dumb costume Laguna Loire had worn in that awful movie; parts in a play, fitting as strangely as Loire’s skin had in those memory-dreams. Some days he didn't feel any more like Rinoa's Knight than he did her boyfriend.

"Right." Rinoa swallowed, and Squall watched as she put a smile back onto her face. Rinoa had always been better than he at wearing the public persona; she slipped into it easily, charm wrapping about her like a scarf, brightly colored distraction. "So Selphie told me today that you were thinking about approving her idea for a Festival next month?"

Stilted conversation about Selphie's plans ("Oh, approve the fireworks budget, Squall; this year's cadets really deserve it") helped them through the arrival of their free bottle of wine, and Rinoa's idle musings about the nature of Selphie and Irvine's relationship took them through dinner itself. Squall's stomach turned over again; when had it turned into this? He remembered Rinoa talking to him, happily and freely, about anything and everything, drawing his own stilted observations out of him with relative ease. Now their eyes met over the table awkwardly, as if caught on something invisible between them. Too much unsaid rested in the air, a stiff tension Squall could sometimes almost feel in his stomach, or in the soles of his feet, like something unbalancing both within and beneath him.

It was not, he reflected sourly, all too long ago that he wouldn't have noticed the stiltedness in the conversation – or at least wouldn't have _cared_ so much, worried at it like this. Sometimes people just didn't get along, or didn’t want to talk, and it had never bothered him; he hadn't believed in relying on others. But he watched Rinoa's face across the table – the cautious shift of expression, the too-quick smiles – and felt the helpless tug of her, affecting him whether he allowed it or not; and beneath it the deeper current of connection between them, his small wants all tangled up in their bond. They saw each other so little, these days. He tried to smile more as dessert arrived, and not to think of the frictionless marble of a ballroom floor, and how scrabble-slick it would feel if it tilted beneath him.

They were leaving the restaurant when a young woman dashed up to Rinoa's side, her eyes bright with admiration, a magazine in her hand. "Excuse me," the girl said, and her voice was so blatantly _hopeful_ that Squall almost wanted to yell at her. "You're ...Rinoa Heartilly, right? Could I maybe get you to sign this?"

To Squall's surprise, it wasn't the copy of Timber Maniacs he'd expected, Rinoa's unusually solemn face declaring her Sorceress powers in an exclusive interview – it was the issue of Weapons Monthly she'd done, so many weeks ago he'd almost forgotten about the entire thing. On this cover, a laughing Rinoa was signaling Angelo to jump; even the dog seemed to be smiling. _Sorceress's Best Friend,_ read the byline; _How Your Pet Can Protect You._ Squall had never expected a publication other than Pet Pals to take Rinoa and Angelo seriously, and he'd been so surprised when WM called – surprised and _proud,_ he remembered. Rinoa (and Angelo, to be fair) had worked really hard to prepare for that issue, and he'd been so proud of the gleaming way the author had described their prowess. The fact that Angelo had been highlighted as an extremely efficient, well-trained and very experienced protective companion was an unexpected but highly desirable bonus.

The ever-present sense of irritation subsided enough for Squall to feel guilty. It almost made him want to sulk _more._ He watched as Rinoa gracefully signed her name right beneath Angelo, beaming at the young woman in a way Squall shouldn't have still been surprised with: this was Rinoa at her best, always with a kind word, happy to share a smile and a sentence with anyone – as if they were all her adoring public, as if she was nothing more than a radiant and reluctant celebrity. Rinoa finished, and looked up at Squall; the smile wobbled a little on her face as she read something on his. Squall winced.

As they left Felicia's, they both turned towards the road that would lead down to the beach, in unexpected unison; he wanted to laugh, except that it made his heart hurt a little. His footsteps were quiet and stern; Rinoa's sounded flightly, the light patter of her distinctly-civilian sneakers fluttering around his uniform boots. "Rinoa," he said, softly, finally, before the silence could form the shape of the thing between them. "I'm– I'm really proud of you for that article. Have I told you that?"

She turned her face to him, and her smile was soft and pleased, the glow in her eyes genuine. "Oh, Squall," she said, and she reached out to take his hand; slender fingers clutched at his in a misaligned squeeze. "You did," she replied, the teasing in her voice warm, "but it never hurts to hear it more, you know. Thank you."

Squall didn't let her hand go. It was like a much-needed anchor: sometimes he felt like Rinoa was a kite, drafting around high above him on her own windy whims, so much more lofty and powerful than he could ever be. Her hand in his solidified their connection, an affectionate grounding wire. He didn't want to bind her, hold her, limit her – _never._ But some days he wondered whether the unseen tension between them would snap this tentative string holding them together, leaving him breathless and Rinoa lost somewhere, separate from him.

They reached the boardwalk, and Rinoa paused to take off her sneakers and socks. "Go on, silly," she said, and her voice was so rich with love and teasing that Squall did, sitting down on the bench to carefully unlace his boots. "No one's going to steal a pair of SeeD boots," she pointed out, even as she carefully tucked both pairs away behind a bush. "They're too ugly for civvies, and SeeDs all have them already."

The sand was still warm underneath his feet, and unsteady between his toes. Rinoa took his hand again, and they walked out to the edge of the ocean in silence. She took a step forward, dabbled a toe in the surf-dappled remains of a wave. Squall followed the pull of her; the water of the sea was cold. It was a strange sensation, the sand uneven and shifting under his weight, the edge of the wave tugging at his toes and ankles. He didn't much like it. His feet longed for the sturdy evenness of the boardwalk, the cement, a battlefield; he felt flooded and overwhelmed.

But Rinoa's face was soft as she looked out over the ocean, her eyes on the rose-and-peach clouds on the horizon. She was so beautiful she made Squall's breath catch, even as he laughed at himself for the thought. She looked lovely. She looked _tired,_ Squall realized almost belatedly, without her usual high-beam smile or mischievous grin; there were wan circles under her eyes, and exhaustion across her brow, even as her face relaxed in the light of the oncoming sunset. Maybe it was the act of watching her like this, watching the tight tension in her face unwind, that made it so obvious.

She took her hand back from him to gather her hair up in a messy bun at her neck, where the wind couldn't steal pieces as easily. Squall felt off-balance without that grounding contact, as if the drag of the waves and the sea was suddenly too much. With her hair tied back, Rinoa's face looked starker, and the exhaustion was more evident. How had he just noticed? Her lips curled up in a gentle smile as she caught him staring. "What?"

"You look tired." Squall reached out, fumbled a piece of wayward hair behind her ear. The gesture seemed to fall flat, floating sluggishly on the waves; he wasn't much good with hair, or with sweet gestures. He dropped his hand to his side again and tried to ignore the shifting sand particles between his toes.

Rinoa let out a sigh through her teeth. "It's been busy, Squall. Just last week we caught a truck of explosives, on its way to..." She turned away, her face wrenching. "On its way to an elementary school. Timber can't sleep until they're gone," she said, and her voice was rough. "And you know I can't sleep either." Something cold wisped inside him – it hadn't been how she meant it but the memory of their nights gaped open underneath him, her waking and the fear singing across the Bond; he tried to shrug all of that aside, but it only compounded his directionless worry, the kite-string suddenly taut and quivering in unseen wind.

"I just wish you would take care of yourself." He meant it with care, but it came out woodenly, and the thing between them twisted, suddenly and surprisingly hot, wrenching out of his grasp.

Rinoa rounded on him, her eyes flashing. "I _am_ taking care of myself, Squall. I'm just a little tired, is all. Would you please...!" Her fists clenched and then opened, tension releasing into the air in a gesture Squall could almost feel. "I _can_ take care of myself. I am doing so. It's a rough time right now, and I think helping Timber get rid of Galbadia is a little more important than getting a full eight hours, don't you?"

He didn't even _say_ anything, and her shoulders still sagged in snide disappointment. "No, of course you don't." She sighed, and looked away. "This isn't just about me, Squall; it's about Timber, and the thousands of people there who are risking as much as I am, if not more." Her hands flexed again. "I just wish you would trust me, Squall. To take care of myself."

"Rinoa," he said, and his million arguments choked in his throat and died on his lips, the way her face rose _and_ fell, the way he felt her anger and resentment and resignment trickling through all the gaping holes they left every time they tore into this.

He breathed through it and said, "I know we both have a lot going on right now. I just – worry about you." She turned to look at him again, and he tried to think of a way to phrase it that she'd understand. "I've seen you take care of yourself. But you've..." And now they were leading into it, the argument they'd been having for weeks now: this disagreement that shimmered in the air with hot rage, that pulled their connection tight and thin until it was threadbare and fraying. "You've put yourself out there as a huge target. You told the _world_ you were the Sorceress, Rin, just came right out with it. It isn't just Galbadia watching you, anymore." He swallowed the feeling of helplessness and anger, the sense of worry that wasn’t entirely _his,_ this protectiveness he’d found inside himself like some foreign memory left behind by a GF.

"I've told you this before, Squall, and I stand by my choice." She planted her feet in the wet sand and faced him; her eyes were stern. "I am not going to live in secrecy and shackles because of what happened to me. If I tried to hide it, you know someone would find out, and everything I'd worked for would go up in smoke if it came out wrong." She swallowed, and Squall could see a trace of fear flicker across her face; it echoed down his spine, faintly, and he watched Rinoa bury it with determination. "Yes, I decided to claim it, and I would do it again. I am not going to hide. I think it's about time these damn powers were used for something good."

 _I will control this thing._ It echoed, ricocheting across the sharp angles of what they'd built between them. Squall wondered whether he was truly hearing her thoughts, transmuted somehow through the shaky Sorceress-Knight bond, spiraling down this kite-string connection, or if it was just a memory of the countless times he and Rinoa had had the same argument in the past weeks.

She just refused to look at the situation through his eyes: from a military perspective, even without a lot of analysis, the biggest target in Timber was Sorceress Rinoa Heartilly. It was Intro-to-Strategy-type knowledge, the kind of thing he'd expect even a civilian like Rinoa to be able to understand. But it was as if Rinoa thought her own determination to not let the powers keep her from living a normal life had convinced her she was no different than any other soldier or citizen she fought beside, and her refusal to recognize or admit it was endangering both her and her mission.

"Speaking of Timber," she said, interrupting his thoughts; Squall heard the tension in her voice and looked up. Rinoa had squared her shoulders and set her mouth in a way he recognized, a method of delivery she used when presenting something she knew he'd argue with. It was amazing sometimes how well they knew each other, how they could still predict the other’s reactions and emotions – how familiar all of this was, even with the layers of their arguments in the way. "Have you thought at all about my proposal?"

He blew the air from his lungs in an exasperated sigh. "Rinoa, I – yes, I've thought about it," he said. "But nothing has been decided yet."

"Well, I've done some thinking." Her face was set with determination, and she began to tick items off on her fingers. "Timber needs connections with other governments and powers to be fully recognized as an independent nation. Timber Garden would bring that with it. We need a better military presence, because Galbadia has both G-Garden _and_ the Army – we're barely surviving these attacks, let alone a full-fledged war. If Timber had a Garden, we'd be pretty instantly established with military power, with an army of our own."

"Not necessarily," Squall had to point out. "Balamb isn't considered a strong military power by itself." The water licked at his toes, and he shifted in the sand, feeling his support shift with him.

"But Galbadia uses G-Garden to farm for the Army, right? Cadets that don't decide to stay on with SeeD can go right into the Galbadian Army." Rinoa sounded proud, almost smug, as if she'd anticipated this argument. "And even B-Garden has an agreement to defend Balamb if necessary, as part of the contract for the space, right? Just the presence of a Garden could go a long way towards solidifying Timber's defenses, even preemptively."

Squall nodded, conceding the point if not the overall logic of the situation. "But a full Garden can't be built in a week, Rinoa. We don't even know how much of Trabia Garden is salvageable yet. In the time it would take to get a Timber Garden built, functional, and actually graduating SeeDs and soldiers..." He shrugged. "Things could be very different."

"That's another thing," Rinoa replied, ticking off another finger. "Building a facility like that would bring in a lot of industry. It would boost Timber's economy, which we need pretty badly right now – bring in construction, education, lots of activity across lots of sectors."

Squall bit his lip. "It's a good argument, Rinoa," he said carefully, because he knew she wasn't going to like this. "But you forgot about something."

She set her mouth, ready to argue, her determination written across her brow. "Like what?"

"You've presented a list of reasons why a Garden would be good for Timber," Squall said. "But you haven't given me any reasons why Timber would be good for Garden."

Rinoa frowned. She said nothing, though, so Squall continued: "Frankly, from Garden's point of view, Timber isn't an ideal site. It's close to a Garden site we already have, and Galbadia Garden can't be moved anywhere until the repairs are done. It's caught in the middle of a civil war, which poses a lot of risk to us: financially, situationally, structurally, not to mention that it also puts a lot of innocent Garden staff and students directly in a line of fire that has nothing to do with them." He shrugged again, and conceded, "The economic situation is pretty favorable, because a new site could be built for relatively cheap, but otherwise... it's a hard sell, Rinoa."

Her mouth set, stubbornly. "I don't think it's worse than any of the other locations you've taken bids from, Squall. Esthar is just as unstable – they've got Lunar Cry monsters and their wall coming down, people there aren't too happy either – and Trabia's still a disaster area, unfortunately. Timber isn't politically stable right now, no, but Timber's stability problems could be _solved_ with an incoming Garden facility. It's cheaper, it's close enough to Galbadia to keep them all in check, and half of the problems will go away once it's _announced_."

Squall took a minute to look out towards the horizon. He felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, the low rumbling kind that built up from his neck, thundering through the back of his skull. "It's also a terrible PR decision," he pointed out, his voice rough in his throat. "You and I are–" And this was ironic, what with the way they were fighting about it all the time, the tension squirming in the air even on good days. “We're too close for it to look like anything other than favoritism."

Rinoa shook her head; there were lines on her forehead as she frowned, and Squall wanted to reach out and smooth them away, smooth this all away, somehow get the roaring out of his ears and the frustration out of his spine. "Good relationships are what drive good politics, Squall," she said, and her voice was somehow both soft and hard: it echoed, strangely urgent, in Squall's head. "People will see this as a reason to stay on friendly negotiating terms with Garden. If Garden works this closely with their known allies, everyone will want to be your ally."

"Garden doesn't need allies," Squall ground out, frustrated; he couldn't seem to find the words he needed to express this particular idea, and it was helping the sudden headache gain momentum. "We need _customers_. The entire point of Garden is to stay out of politics as much as we can."

A look flashed between them, sharp as steel, something that felt like hissing, angry and molten: and Squall knew they were both thinking about Garden, thinking about Garden's _real_ purpose, its _initial_ purpose. He and Cid weren't sure how to reconcile Garden's fundamental point with the events of the past few months – yet – but Squall knew that if SeeD were to have a future, it would have to be about more than Sorceresses. The thought alone made something twist in his gut; he felt like he was trying to clutch a mass of loose threads, each twisting away from him: Garden's future, his future with Rinoa, Rinoa's plans, all tangled up together and for a second he wondered where _Squall_ was in the middle of it all. When had he become like this, so _connected_ that it hurt, that it confused him dizzy, that it made him just want to touch Rinoa's face and smooth this all away?

Her hand came up in a weird echo of his thought, though her fingers were frustrated, clawing loose hair away from her face again, caught in the evening shoreline wind. And because Rinoa was Rinoa – and his heart swelled, proud and warm, even as the words he knew were coming scraped across his headache, tensed his shoulders – she took the unsaid thing between them and said it, put it before his face.

"Can't this be the start of something new for Garden? Can't _this_ be Garden's future?" It hung in the air: _And ours_?

Squall looked at her for a long moment, feeling the waves stealing the surety out from under his feet, watching as the dying light touched Rinoa's face, more softly than he ever could. His voice felt flat and unhappy when he spoke.

"I don't know, Rinoa. I just… don't know."

It hung so _solid_ in the air, like Squall had spit ice spells on the waves; the water ran cold along his feet. And for once, he couldn't read Rinoa's face, like the evening shadows had reached it early and it bothered him how much that scared him, these naked feelings when words couldn't cross the empty spaces; the kite-string had gone lax, slack pooling around his ankles, looping away from him into infinity.

Then Rinoa ran a hand across her face, breaking the density of their looks: a tired swipe across her forehead, fingers stopping to tuck hair behind her ear. "Let's just – let's go home, okay?"

His head ticked down in a nod, enough that Rinoa turned to trudge back up the beach. The sand felt gritty and unpleasant as he followed her, clinging to his wet feet. They reached the boardwalk, and he stood awkwardly barefoot as Rinoa rummaged in the bush. She retrieved her sneakers, the stiff line of her back etched across his vision in silent rebuke, but left him to fend after his own boots, the childishness of it a helpless irritating contrast to the empty enormity of the questions they couldn't answer. She led the way back, and Squall couldn't see her face.

  
_________________________________

  
The door closed behind her with a quiet click, and Rinoa stood there for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the soft almost-darkness of Squall's office. She felt the absence of his hand in hers like an ache, and wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, desperately hoping her own palms could transmit that strange feeling of solid solidarity Squall's did. Of course, nothing happened, except that her eyes adjusted a little more and she felt a little foolish for embracing herself.

Squall flicked on the light, and stalked over towards his desk, ruffling through his inbox – looking for the Timber petition, Rinoa guessed. He set everything neatly back in place, carefully aligning it all in a perfect stack. He didn't look at her. Rinoa breathed in, feeling her eyes prick; these days it seemed like she was living her life on the verge of tears, whether it was Squall or Timber or just plain being so _tired_ all the time, because there wasn't ever enough time for anything. She breathed out. It felt sometimes like she was overflowing, inside, although Rinoa had no idea what she'd be overflowing _with;_ she felt low on energy, willpower, everything else. Her heart felt knotted, tangled up in something and set crookedly in her chest. She breathed in; breathed out, this time like a sigh. Squall, glowering at his inbox, hadn’t once glanced in her direction.

"Squall," she said, or tried to say, because the second she opened her mouth the tears rushed into her throat; it came out a half-sob, which _wasn't what she wanted to do;_ why did everything feel so out of control? He looked up at her then, and his eyes were dark like storms, and she choked on the other half of her sob. _I can't do this,_ she thought, because it was tearing her apart: Squall's eyes on her, so calm and so _judging,_ and _oh, God,_ it hurt when he looked at her like that, all military discipline and cold stone walls. She wanted _him,_ the Squall she knew, the one who understood her flailings and dreams. Despair rose in her throat.

Before she realized she'd even moved, Rinoa had crossed the room and come to stand behind Squall's desk; she took his hand in hers. It wasn't the anchoring she'd wanted, though: it was like Squall was a wall, and all her emotion had ricocheted off that smooth unforgiving surface and struck her directly in the heart; so much; too much, Rinoa thought, _make it stop._ She half-collapsed into his desk chair, clutching at his hand, pulling him closer so that she could lean her head against him. Her forehead came to rest against the curve of his hip, and Rinoa breathed in a sharp, ragged sob against the fabric.

She closed her eyes against it, against _all_ of it, against the awful reality of everything: deaths in Timber, danger in Galbadia, broken dreams and exhausted soldiers, going short on sleep and working fourteen-hour days. Squall, slipping away from her as the world set them up too far from each other. The roiling magic inside her, so desperately needing an outlet, weeping so terrifyingly to her in the night. Rinoa closed her eyes, and breathed through Squall's shirt, and knew nothing else until Squall's hand came to rest on the back of her head, tentative.

Rinoa swallowed desperate tears. Squall's fingers were cool against her skin, gentle and familiar.

As his brief touch became a soft stroke, Rinoa sagged a little. There was no sound in the office save her ragged breaths. She squeezed her eyes together, tightly, thinking: _it can be okay, right?, just for right now?_ and feeling Squall's hand run through her hair _._ It was strange and sad that Squall could still give her comfort, that the light brush of his fingers still carried reassurance; she and Squall just felt so far away from each other, and whether it was circumstance or their bond or both she couldn't say.

She tilted her head to look up at him. Her eyes filled with tears, but somehow, this close, her cheek still pressed against his stomach and his hand still tangled in her hair, it was _okay,_ as if tears were only allowed in close proximity.

She felt Squall shift beneath her, felt him inhale, felt his muscles stiffen as he got ready to speak; her eyes closed again, against the tears and the inevitability of whatever he was going to say, her heart already bracing itself.

"I don't know what to do," Squall said, and Rinoa could have laughed: was he talking about _them,_ about the Gardens? About her sniffling into his shirt right now, about the way they’d spent months building an argument so large they couldn’t walk anywhere without tripping over its residue? Even now she felt swamped, exhausted, and she imagined she could almost feel Squall's tension creeping across the Bond like an enemy approaching – and she hated that, that she could even think of them this way. It added a layer of such _empty_ , undirected anger to the helpless tangle of her emotions.

"Why can't it be _simple_?" It sounded so childish, and she knew it, and couldn't stop it, like the tears she'd swallowed were coming back up all wrong and bitter, words she didn't want that were still true, and she felt Squall's hand tense in her hair, just a little, and squeezed her eyes shut even tighter.

And she could almost feel Squall's eyes slide closed, too, before he spoke, echo-layer of what her own had done, a sudden moment of clarity-connection-- and then fading again ( _don't go don't go)_ , as he said, so quiet, "People don't let things be simple when Sorceress is involved."

Her breath drew in, ragged and loud.

A hard sharpness gripped her, like she'd frozen inside, and her eyes opened to stare almost dully into space even as intricate body-awareness of the moment pushed in all around her: how she kept breathing, how Squall's body felt alive under her face and hands, how they stood and sat there silently together as Squall shot square through the heart the thing that could hurt and scare Rinoa most.

She felt the ice sudden in her veins, a chill she was so, so afraid could become _real_ at any moment, things spilling over from her mind into being and back again. She was sure, she was _sure_ , that she had been right, that it had been the right choice; everything pointed to it, everything she wanted for Timber – if she couldn't stop being afraid of this part of her, if she couldn't _own_ it, control it, _be_ it and be herself, how could she expect the rest of the world to feel? And it _hurt_ so hard and deep when Squall took this careful decision and hedged it in, tangled it up with his military logic when this wasn't about _fighting_ for her, it was supposed to be the opposite–

"But this _was_ the simple option," she found herself saying, almost a whisper behind everything she couldn't let out – tears and magic, fear and certainty, this obdurate certainty that seemed to so irritate Squall and–

"Simple for you," she heard him say, dry, his fingertips still and motionless in her hair and she felt the air go hollow inside her, rushing out like a blow. She wanted to be mad – she was mad – except she heard the question inside it, Squall asking her to see what her publicity had done to him (to them). And she was _still_ mad, because it was like a mocking echo of her own thoughts, buzzing helplessly between them: couldn’t _he_ see _her_ side for once?

She felt Squall breathe in, could feel the words coming up through him before he spoke them: "It's hard, Rin. It's hard for people to see past that. All they'll see is another Sorceress-Garden alliance. Or they'll see the Commander handing out favours."

Rinoa could imagine, could feel him, staring over her head, both of them talking to opposite walls, cross-purposes, their words floating away from each other instead of towards and _what does it_ matter _what conclusions people jump to_ , she wanted to cry. We can _change_ them, we can _show_ them, what does it _matter_ what they think at first if we both know we're doing the right thing? She knew what a reputation could do – wasn't that what this was all about? Why she'd gone public, why she worked so hard for people to _see her_? And the question rose up in her, husking her throat dry, her lips forming the words as she stared at the wall of Squall's office: "Does it really matter more to you? What people think of you?"

He twitched, the muscles of his stomach hard for a second under her head and hands. "It matters what people think of _you_." His hand drew away from her hair – so he wouldn't pull it by accident, she knew, with his tense-frustrated fingers, and her breath drew in, loudly – and he kept going, a rough deep-growing edge rising in his voice, "Rinoa, you can't – you can't twist people around until they do what you want. You won't always get something just because you want it." He pulled away from her; her hands spasmed on his hips but she let him go, listened to his hard pacing steps as she thought, _I'm not a spoiled little kid anymore, Squall._ So many things boiled up in her, quiet and useless; her thoughts felt like they were thudded into the ground with each of Squall's steps, muted, emptied, undirected and–

"We should get some sleep," Rinoa said, and her voice sounded very small; she knew it was a cop-out, but it was the only thing she could think of: to stay in this office, to spend another minute here, ripping their hearts into shreds with words – she couldn't take this.

Squall's pacing stopped; Rinoa almost winced as she felt all of Squall's attention directed at her, shaky-sharp quivers across the bond: love, frustration, so much sadness and exhaustion. The silence stretched, thin and close, and Rinoa closed her eyes, and tried to send _something_ back, hope-love-need all in one desperate rush because she couldn't do it with words, not when every syllable came up acid.

But Squall only stilled into the deeper silence that meant he was thinking over words or swallowing them, and said, "I have some work to finish."

She nodded, stiff, everything unspoken and unspilled twisting in her like snakes, and got up from his office chair.

  
_________________________________

  
The door clicked shut quietly – too quietly – behind Rinoa and Squall hunched his shoulders at how gently she'd closed it; he knew what it looked like, what it felt like: her fingertips splayed against the wood to cushion the swing, hands soft and steady. _Click_ , and they're in separate worlds. It was always three things with her, three extremes – the slammed doors of her tempers, the way she just forgot doors were there once she was through them when she was relaxed or happy or energetic – and this, the too-careful kind when he knew she was all too aware of walls. She would shut doors like that when she wanted to be alone with him: the door to his room, her room, even this office, sometimes – though recently it had been only so that she could take his hand and tug him to wherever she needed comforting, resting her head against him in the parody of _everything’s okay_ they continued to play out.

She shut doors that way when she wanted to be apart from him, too, careful and avoidant. _Click._

Squall blew out his breath, unable to banish the sight of her looking up at him with tears in her eyes, the soft white arch of her neck as she leaned her forehead against his hip; the way his hand felt in her hair. Her footsteps had long retreated up the hall but the scent of her still lingered here. The Timber Garden petition lay accusingly in front of him, and memory from earlier in the day intruded: her smile wobbling on her face at the sight of him; the surf rushing around her calves as they argued. Her hand tugging him to stand in front of her, the click of the door, the papers on his desk like the softest rebuke wedged into his heart.

He flipped open the petition again, movements annoyingly jerky. He was tired and it was late; irritation still bubbled under his surface like it always seemed to, these days. It was like a well had opened up inside him and drained him dry of patience, leaving behind a volatile residue of grit and grimaces, like the sand he could still feel between his toes.

He looked at the thick stack of paper in his hands – he hadn’t wanted to look at it with Rinoa standing there; he could imagine the look on her face, hope-expectation-dismay-disdain in the way only she could summon up, her own personal cocktail mixed specifically for him. The cover letter was simple and neat, and Squall detected Rinoa’s hand, heavy among the words: phrases like _good working relationships_ and _friendly contract_ were so familiar he could almost hear her voice reading them aloud. He turned the page, and the standard petition form had been filled out in her handwriting, painstakingly neat (Rinoa’s usual handwriting was awful, some last lingering rebellion against her expensive private school).

The sight of it – her careful letters, words neatly chosen and sentences deliberately phrased; the thought of Rinoa hunched over a clipboard, pooled in her lap, notes strewn around her as she gnawed on her pen – Squall’s heart wrenched a little, even as a part of him filled with irritation; _you couldn’t even use a computer?_ His fingers came to rest across the small line of boxes at the very top, in which she’d so neatly penned _RINOA HEARTILLY, Timber Owls Liaison;_ his fingertips could feel the indentations the pen had made, and they ran across it idly, reading the sensations in the page beneath her name.

This, Squall thought, was exactly why he could _not_ accept this petition. He couldn’t even read it without Rinoa’s voice filling his ears, something like the scent of her in the air and this stupid, irritating sentimentality that threatened to choke him every time she surfaced in his world.

He set the petition aside. He wasn’t sure why it filled him with such frustration; it was uncontrollable, the way it surged out of some dark place inside of him. Things between himself and Rinoa had never been smooth and easy, but they’d _fit,_ before, in a way that had drawn them _together;_ now they seemed to repulse each other, like magnets turned the wrong way, something terribly off and misaligned. It was like everything Rinoa did drove him up the wall, each well-meant gesture yet another example of the things she didn’t understand, hadn’t changed, wasn’t listening to; she said things nicely and seemed to mean them but when it came down to _actions,_ she still wasn’t–

Squall sighed, and his eyes fell to the papers in his hands. He’d picked up the petition from Esthar absently, probably to hide Timber’s beneath it where the sight of Rinoa’s neat capitals wouldn’t fill him with upset guilt. But it was in his hands, and Squall started to read it again – more carefully this time. His first glance at it had been perfunctory, filled with the mild sense of irritation he always felt towards Loire and the more direct aggravation he still felt spikes of when reminded of the casual way Cid had dumped this problem into his lap.

Squall took a breath and tried to breathe out the lingering frustration, and gave his second read-through more attention.

Esthar had done well. Their arguments were well-phrased, their points clear, and the example sites they’d listed were all specific, with tiny footnotes and addendums of relevant details marked where appropriate. The budget proposal they’d submitted was rough and estimated, yes, but it wasn’t an unreasonable starting point; the list of technological collaboration projects they’d suggested for a three-year trial period was actually intriguing.

Squall flipped through the rest of the proposal, admiring the concise and precise way Esthar had included their information. At the end of the packet was a short personal letter, signed by President Loire, which included an open invitation for a SeeD representative to come visit at any point within a certain time period. Squall checked his calendar; Loire’s invitation had technically opened up yesterday.

The phone number at the bottom of the page stared at him. Squall’s eyes fell to the Timber petition – Rinoa’s petition, and before he really had registered what he was doing he’d picked up the phone and dialed.

For some reason he’d expected a secretary. When he was greeted with a cheerful “Good morning! This is Laguna!” it surprised him to the point of silence; he stared at the paper in his hands for a long moment, phone hissing low static into his ear.

“Hello?”

Squall cleared his throat. “This is Commander Leonhart from Balamb Garden,” he began.

Laguna laughed. “Hi, Squall! What’s up?”

He had forgotten the way it annoyed him, how Loire pretended they were friends, buddies, _more,_ as if Ellone’s weird memory-connections and the few words they’d exchanged while fighting Ultimecia had somehow cemented a lifelong alliance. Squall rolled his eyes where only the empty room could see, but it was already too late for anything but the talking. “I’m calling to arrange a visit in regards to Esthar’s Garden petition.”

“Oh, great!” Laguna sounded surprised and pleased and – something else besides, something tinny and expectant that might have just been the phone connection. “When do you want to come out?”

Squall thought about his duties; he thought about Rinoa, tucked into bed, that little frown still between her eyebrows even as she slept; he felt the water tugging at his feet again, the stubbornness in her eyes, tired and sad, as she refused to give up again and again.

“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Or maybe the day after. I …have to check my schedule.” He realized he should have done so _before_ calling and then tried somewhat awkwardly to explain, “I wanted to make sure the invitation was still open.”

Laguna laughed again. “Of course. Any time within that period is fine. Just send me your travel itinerary and I’ll have someone pick you up at the station.”

Squall breathed in through his teeth; out through his nose, a long tense exhale. “Alright. Thanks.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Laguna chirped, “See you then!”

Squall made a very noncommittal noise and hung up the phone.

  
_________________________________

  


Rinoa’s feet took her through Garden on their own. She certainly wasn’t directing them; her mind was still in Squall’s office, incensed and passionate and so very, very _empty,_ as if the connection they shared had been drained from her, from them, bit by bit, until all that was left was dead circuitry. The magic writhed in her, and she wondered whether or not she would sleep tonight: she needed _real_ sleep, not the kind that grabbed her and dragged her downwards into the roiling mess of Sorceress’s powers, down into the drowning deep where dark things lived, tempting her-Sorceress-her with powerful dreams that quickly transmuted into gasping nightmares, throwing her awake—

“Rinoa?”

She blinked, and stopped walking. Quistis was standing in front of her, a hand on her arm, concern creasing her forehead. “Rinoa, are you alright?”

“I—“ Rinoa laughed, not really meaning it. “I’m sorry. I must have glazed over for a second there.”

Quistis’ lips twitched, concern and friendly humor evident in the smirk. “You look… upset,” she said, slowly, as if unsure. “Is everything okay?”

 _No,_ Rinoa wanted to say: _I’m losing Squall and I’m losing Timber and it feels like I’m losing my_ mind, _too, and I’m not just losing, I’m **lost**._ “Yeah,” she said instead, although it came out a weary sigh.

Quistis didn’t look convinced. “It’s Squall,” Rinoa said finally, squirming with it, as if admitting it made it real, made it _worse,_ and she knew Squall wouldn’t want anyone to know but _honestly,_ she couldn’t keep this _in_ any longer; it was eating at her, like acid, and for a minute she thought about letting all her problems out, releasing them to Quistis, all of this shadowy darkness that felt like it was growing inside her like a weed, that would choke and consume her in the end—

Quistis’ face had creased with sympathetic kindness, though, and Rinoa swallowed the urge; it tasted like bile in her mouth and she wanted nothing more but to run to bed, to bury her face in a pillow. “We just can’t stop fighting.” The words escaped like balloons, drifting on the air currents.

Quistis gave her a supportive smile. “It has to be hard,” she said, haltingly; “Squall isn’t – the easiest person in the world.”

Rinoa snorted, and then shrugged. She looked down at her hands as words failed her; she didn’t know what to say: there didn’t seem to be anywhere stable between _help me with all of this_ and _go away_ within the reach of her mind.

Luckily, Quistis seemed to recognize the awkward silence; she was probably used to them, as she seemed used to everything, each and every experience life seemed to throw at her. “I know it isn’t my business, but have you guys thought about… talking to someone? Maybe Cid or Edea? Or even Doctor Kadowaki… an external party? Somebody neutral, who could listen.” She shifted her weight, gracefully. “Or have you thought about …taking a break? Getting some distance?” Her voice turned soft and even more kind and it wasn’t what Rinoa wanted at all, this reasonable, rational, sense-making list of items to check off, options to consider; this was the way Quistis dealt with everything, calm and systematic, and right now Rinoa was full of bile and rage and too much sad _emotion_ to want anything to do with this—

“I dunno,” she said finally, shrugging again. “Sorry, Quisty, I think I’m just tired.”

The smile quirked into something stiff and awkward for one second, but then Quistis smoothed it out, all propriety and poise. “Of course. Go to bed. Sleep always helps. Good night, Rinoa.”

Rinoa watched her leave, wanting to call out – what? Something: _I’m sorry; come back; help._

Instead she turned and continued her wayward drift towards their bedroom.

  
_________________________________

  


Squall opened the door softly and closed it even more softly. Rinoa was already asleep; he could always tell by her breathing, which went deep and even. She’d left on the light on his desk, turned towards the wall so as not to disturb her. She was a shadow in his sheets, curled up on her side of the bed in a tight ball, the wrinkles of the blanket curving into her form like a sigil.

He undressed, silently, changing into the pajama pants she’d left out on the chair for him. It was all habit; even these fights were becoming habitual, this strange cycle of ferocity and forgiveness, as if putting balm over the wound would stop their hands from ripping it open the next day. It was hard to be angry with her sleeping in the darkness, her breath a soft rhythm.

Squall climbed into bed, his heart dulling to a slow ebb of pain as he curled himself around her; as his arm wrapped over her side she loosened, stretched to fit him, and all of a sudden it was _sad,_ because the only time they fit this well was in sleep, in the darkness, shadows hiding the gaping cracks.

Her warmth was a drug and it pulled Squall down, into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It took Rinoa a full few minutes to realize the tinny ringing sound in her ears was the sound of her mobile phone going off – awareness and awakeness seemed very far away, and she swam through a muggy half-conscious mist, dry like cotton in her mouth, and _when_ had the simple act of waking up become such a hassle? She was always so _tired._ She sat up in bed; her face felt grainy, as if she'd brought the beach back with her: as if she'd cried all night, even though she knew that wasn't the case. She rubbed at her dry eyes. The phone continued to ring, an alarm sounding in the sterile quiet of Squall's room – and she stumbled out of bed, her stomach wrenching and falling simultaneously, as she recognized the serious-tone ringer she'd set for Zone and Watts in case of an emergency – _Timber, oh_ _God; please be okay, please, everyone be okay..._

"Hello?" Her voice sounded breathless; consciousness had slammed itself into her, and her heart was pounding. _Please be okay, please be okay..._

"Rinoa." It was Zone, his voice flat and exhausted, and while one part of her winged in relief, elated, _he's safe,_ another part sank in nervous worry: he'd said her name, not _Princess,_ not _Rinny;_ it was bad.

"What's wrong?" The questions were bubbling up out of her, the worry catching in her throat and making her voice sound smaller than she wanted. "Is everyone okay?"

"We're alright," he said, and suddenly she could breathe: cool air poured into her lungs, and she exhaled slowly, the tension fading to a dull ringing roar. "There was another bombing. The library over on Fifth –we think they must have found out about our meetings there. No one was hurt, it's more a symbol thing than anything, I think, but the building's been blown to dust." He swallowed, and she could hear the sadness in his voice, that same hopelessness she hated so much. "I figured you'd hear about it, the news is all up in arms here, and I wanted you to know we're all okay."

"Thank God." It was all she could say, because she was suddenly and inexplicably heartbroken: the library, old stone and ivy, a set of encyclopaedias so old they still thought Esthar was a myth; sitting on the step, eating ice cream in the summer sun with Watts, smoking in the shadows with Seifer. It hadn't even been that important of a place to her until now – until now when it was gone forever, books turned to dust and all her old cigarette butts buried in its ashes. One more piece of Timber lost forever, simply removed from existence, irreversible destruction: a Galbadian bomb, taking a chunk of her heart with it. She felt its loss keenly, a sharp stab of feelings so mixed she could barely decipher them: hurt-anger-sorrow, roiling like a storm.

"What are we doing with this?" she asked, because being sad wouldn't help them at all but turning this into a strong piece of propaganda and momentum would. "We have to go public on this one. That library is a well-known Timber landmark. People are going to be angry."

"We haven't done anything yet." Zone sounded as tired as she felt, and Rinoa realized he'd probably been awake all night – _what time is it in Timber, anyway?_ – dealing with the fallout. "Watts and I are trying to evacuate the area so that we can get started on cleanup, but no one has made a statement or anything." _That's your job,_ his voice said, and Rinoa knew it without even having to hear the words: she was theirs, their Princess turned savior turned Sorceress, the figurehead they'd centered their movement around: it was why she'd gone public about her powers in the first place, so that she could use them, use the fame, use the public attention to wrench Timber from Galbadia's poisonous grasp at last–

Rinoa pressed her fingers to her forehead, took a deep breath. "Tell them I'll be back today," she said, sounding much more resolute than she felt. "Take care of the city, and if anyone asks, tell them I'll be making a statement when I get there. I'll – I'll call when I know my timetable."

"Thanks, Rin." Zone's voice was grateful, relieved, and as Rinoa shut her mobile slowly she felt her stomach sink. She'd have to go tell Squall. The thought made her ill, and that realization made her feel worse: she was nervous about approaching him with this; she felt guilty to again be choosing Timber, but what could she do? Squall and Garden could wait; Timber couldn't, not with the rubble of the library still warm, the dust from the explosion still settling on windowsills and countertops. The thought of it, _her_ city, under siege again, behind her back – the sadness was transmuting to anger, slowly, newly-forged determination not far behind. She dressed quickly, tucking the mobile into her pocket. She'd just tell Squall the news; he'd see. Hell, maybe it would help open his eyes a little bit; maybe it would show him what Garden’s assistance meant to her. To them. To Timber.

She tapped on the door to Squall's office, and then opened it slowly; he was already there, already on the phone with someone, a fresh printout gripped in his hands and a stack of mission-assignment papers strewn, unusually messy, across his desk. He looked up at her, and stopped short for a second; barked "I'll call you back" into the phone and hung up. They looked at each other for a long moment, the gaze seeming to draw itself out, horizontally, and Rinoa wasn't sure if the things she saw in her periphery were real, or were part of the sudden hurt that came flinging across the Bond like an ice-spell barrage.

"I heard," Squall said. His voice was flat and stern, but his face creased strangely, as if trying to express something blocked. "I'm sorry to hear it."

"Thank you," she said automatically, her mind feeling blank as she swallowed the reality of actually facing him, of having to tell him these things in person. "I have to get back. Can you call Selphie, have her pull the Ragnarok around? I promise it won't–"

"Rinoa." Squall stood up, and she saw he had put on his game-face, his Commander-face, the one she wanted to rail her fists against and break – but concern leaked through the Bond, concern and worry, and it only made it _worse_ because she was so, so mad. "You're not going."

Her face flared up, a sudden flush of anger rushing through her body and flooding her brain, splashing off of the cool ache of the Bond like a deflected wave. "Excuse me?" Her voice _bit_ ; she felt the icy sting of it, through an off-key echo of Squall’s cold determination, and it only made her _madder._ "The last time I checked, you were neither my Commander nor my father, Squall. You do _not_ get to say what I do." It _hurt_ , after all this time, that he'd still try to order her around like a cadet, like something young and fragile that needed to be kept safe and would obviously obey.

"Rinoa." His voice was almost pleading now, the way it shaped her name from those cold stone lips, and yet tinted with condescension – and how did he do that, so stern and unyielding and yet emotional all at once? "Think about it. You're not there right now, and everyone knows it, with your schedule so public." And _that_ wasn't a low blow, either, was it? Squall would _never_ fight unfairly. "They're trying to draw you out, bring you back, where they know you're vulnerable."

"So what if they are?" she shot back, her temper flaring up at the subtle arrogance of his military analysis. "That doesn't change the fact that I need to be there, Squall. I need to go back today."

"If you go back, you're just giving them what they want." He turned, gathered the mission sheets from his desk casually, only the crunch of the pages in his grasp revealing his actual tension. "You can't go back to Timber. I've assigned Quistis to be your bodyguard while you're here in Balamb, just in case."

"You _what?_ " She actually took a step back. "No. This is ridiculous, Squall."

"This is what needs to happen." His face was closed, a stone carving, his eyes alight with the brewing storm. She couldn't even look at him; she couldn't look _away,_ her eyes drawn to his determination and that traitorous set of papers in his hand, as if she were just another mission objective. But that was how Squall saw life, wasn't it? A series of victories and defeats, a strategic discipline. No room for the passion of rebellion in the life of a SeeD Commander.

And then it hit her: a way to drive her argument home, and oh, it _wasn't_ fair, at all, but if he wanted to fight dirty, she could too. "If you're so convinced that I'm so much safer in a Garden, then that's another good reason to put one in Timber, isn't it?" It was almost a hiss, but she was so _angry_ she could barely see straight.

The sudden change in subject struck Squall a little; she watched him shake his head, watched his eyes narrow in disbelief. "Because that won't come across as favoritism." He folded his arms, and she _felt_ the stubbornness, like someone putting a foot down in her mind. "I'm sure our benefactors will approve of me asking for a new Garden just for my _Sorceress girlfriend_."

Rinoa took another step back, her entire body shaking with the hurt, the rage. "Well, I don't get it, Squall. You want to keep me safe, but instead of taking a big step to _make_ my life safer, you decide to box me up in Balamb Garden, far away from where I need to be, and you set Quistis as my guard dog, to keep me here? This is – this is the entire reason I came out as a Sorceress, the entire reason I decided to go public anyway, to use that for Timber. Are you still mad about that? Is that what this is about?" Her voice broke on it, and she'd never been farther from weeping in her life, all of her worry for Timber and her anger at Galbadia and her frustration with Squall coming together, something building inside her, climax and anti-climax. "Are you still mad about that because I made my own decision? Why are you still treating me like I am a dumb, stupid child? Is this some kind of _punishment?_ "

"I want to protect you!" It burst out of him strangely, anguished and angry all at once, and Rinoa blinked at it.

She swallowed, slowly, feeling out the sudden change in the air, her emotions still buzzing inside of her like a swarm of lightning, an ache she wanted to release; "Why?" she asked, the one word carrying a double handful of her own hurt, her own rage, because they'd had this argument before. "I'd rather have your _support_ than your _protection_ , Squall, and you know it, so why–?" It _hurt,_ to confront him like this, to say it out loud: _this isn't helping me._ "Why are you still doing it?"

"I just – Rinoa, I – I _have_ to. I can't not. Because–" and his face went blank, tight and empty "–because of what we are."

Rinoa's retort died in her throat, stopping it up; a chill splashed across her chest and the anger turned nauseous and greasy and dripped away. Shaky misery sloshed across the Bond and Rinoa bit her lip, scared -- the Bond had been so strange and unstable; they'd been seeing each other so little, both so busy. Was it driving Squall so hard to protect her even when it was slipping through Rinoa's fingers? _Because_ it was slipping? Was he so unhappy because he could feel it too? Or – or was he trapped, so close to losing it that he could almost taste life without her? Squall's words had sounded like half-accusation, but his face was tense with the effort it took to get that much honesty out, the irritated furrow deep in his brow and Rinoa quailed – when had it become so hard for them to be honest, even when they knew each other so well, when she could read every line of his face? It seemed the more they learned of each other, the less they saw and the more they hid, as if this intimate knowledge was a dangerous weapon between them instead of a gift.

The thought tightened her heart, cold and fluttering inside her. She looked at Squall and his eyes met hers, too quickly, an instant instinct, and Rinoa felt the edge of tears on her tongue.

"This – this isn't working, is it?" It came out so small.

Squall just looked at her for a moment, then blew out his breath and turned away. Rinoa couldn't move, rooted to the spot, all the restless energy shattered and gathered into one tight line between them. She stared at Squall's back, wanting to say something, anything. She listened to his breathing, harsh and forceful through his nose, marking five of her racing heartbeats for every breath she heard. His hand came up in an achingly familiar gesture to cover his face. He looked so tired.

She didn't even know what her own words meant – and she was afraid to try and pin it down, every option twisting up her gut: the Gardens, her and Squall, the Sorceress-Knight bond – she remembered running into Quistis, how she had felt everything sifting through her hands, how she had felt so _lost_ – and she was waiting, she knew, for Squall to find her, pull her out of the dark, do it just one more time...

"All right," he said after too many silent moments. He didn't turn. “I'll go to Esthar to research the Garden idea. I won't make any decisions. Please…” His voice choked on it and she felt something crackling between them, Squall’s concern and his own stubbornness butting up against whatever mix of anger-fear-loss she must have been pouring into their connection.

He swallowed, and didn’t turn around. “You should stay here with Quistis. When I get back and Timber is safer, I'll go with you. We can research the Timber Garden idea then."

She felt the bottom dropping out of her stomach, too slowly, and she thought of free-fall, black and alone and forever. _He didn't ask me to go to Esthar with him_. And, bigger and more angry– _I need to be in Timber. I need to support them. Isn't this what I revealed myself for? They need to see me, to believe_ – Then, crawling up her throat: _He's not listening to me at all._

But then Squall turned around – every echo of that movement rising up in her memory – his face so unhappy and his eyes full of care and his mouth set and angry but silent, trapping the hurtful words inside, away from her. And she realized that he was _trying_ , that there was compromise in this for him and she could only think, _It's not enough,_ and listen to the way it echoed off of this hollow feeling.

“Is that going to work?” she asked, and dammit, she didn’t _mean_ for it to sound like such a challenge: everything between them turned into a fight, every question and silence and answer becoming a new wound, everything they knew of each other turning into weapons – and what did she expect, from a mercenary and a rebel?

“Rinoa—“ His voice was choked with exasperation, and she _felt_ him swallow it, his aggression fading to cold distance. “We can’t… I can’t do everything at once. We – I – it isn’t a bad idea to take things one at a time.”

She blinked, her brain _tangled,_ half in the Garden conversation and half in the threads of their Bond, sticky and unraveling. “But…” There were so many things to say, so many things she couldn’t even put into words. _Why do your things always come first?_ “Some things can’t wait,” she said, carefully.

Squall’s shoulders hunched, and Rinoa wondered how much he could _hear_ over the Bond – how many of her traitorous thoughts were being transmitted? “If they really think this is important, they can.”

His voice was so sad, and Rinoa’s heart spun with it, even as his indifference tore her to shreds again. She wasn’t even sure what this was about, where this talk was going, and it was so indicative of everything now: lost, confused, swirled together, everything bleeding from one thing to the next. “I’m not sure we get to decide everything, Squall,” she said, softly. “I don’t know if we …get to pick what can wait.”

“I know that,” he snapped, and her heart went cold, the Bond twisting up like a rope. “That’s the problem. There’s so much…” _At stake?_ Her mind finished for her. _Involved? So much we can’t say_ , _so much we don’t know._ Did he mean Garden? So many threads tangled in this mess: Timber, Galbadia, Esthar, Balamb, misaligned like the points of a broken compass and out of balance.

“There’s too much going on,” Squall muttered finally, and his hands closed into fists.

It was some kind of admission. Rinoa shook her head as the words buzzed with too many meanings: Gardens, Sorceresses, so much unsaid between herself and Squall and too much said around them: public opinions, political angles, magazine articles and newspaper photographs; too many people deciding what they were ( _Commander, Knight, mercenary; Sorceress, Owl, rebel)_ and not enough of _them_ deciding who _they_ could be. One step at a time didn’t seem like such a bad idea with all these things bouncing in her mind, suddenly, the magic rising within her in a sudden rush of panic. Her hands gripped each other like a circuit, like a lifeline, knuckles signaling a white flag of surrender.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t do _everything.”_

“Neither can I.” She heard the tension in his voice, pulled taut between them like string.

“So,” she said, trying to stride forward as best she could, because to stay here any longer would be to _drown_ in indecision and she couldn’t bear this for one more second. “What _can_ wait?”

Squall turned to her, and she saw it on his face and her heart broke open before he even said anything because she felt it like waves, like turbulence, ricocheting across the darkness: the feedback whined in her ears, the reverberation of it threatening to pull her under _down with the dark things_ and she looked into his face and tried not to plead, not to beg, _no, Squall, say it can wait; say Esthar can wait, Garden can wait…_

“Can you?” he asked softly.

 _One at a time. Everything else first, then us…_ Rinoa swallowed, and tried to make herself a stone. “You mean… take a break. From this.”

He nodded. It sank like a rock into her stomach, and the ripples around it were dark and lonely and she thought about it, how hard it was already at night even with him there. And then she thought about the times she woke up and he just made it _harder,_ because he didn’t understand – or he did understand but didn’t agree; Squall would never lie to her, but often his truths hurt, sharp thorns beneath the wilting petals. She thought about freedom, and wondered when she’d become so bogged down in herself that she’d lost sight of other things. She thought about a pause, just a stop in time: a space to breathe.

She hurt to say it. But she made her mouth form the words: “Maybe you’re right.”

It was the first verbal victory she’d granted him in a long time; but Squall just looked sad, and Rinoa knew it wasn’t a battle he’d wanted to win. It felt like they were both losing, and maybe he was right: maybe separating would dull this pain a little, blunt the knives she felt tearing at her heart, because there was only so much more of this she could take.

Squall turned the whole way around; his face looked _old,_ for a minute, and Rinoa thought maybe she knew what he would look like at fifty: lined, shadowed, and too sad. “Okay,” was all he said, and his hands relaxed out of fists, opening to the air like possibilities.

It was like all she could see was the distance between them, him beside his desk and her in the middle of the room, and those familiar few feet had never felt more obvious, impossible and empty. For a moment she clutched, desperately, for the Bond, and _oh, that had been a bad idea_ because it wasn't enough and it was too much – the unsteady pull gave her less balance, not more, like small secret currents in a shallow tide, dragging at her feet. Even now she could feel bits and tatters of him, and it _hurt,_ because all of this would have been so much easier if she could just think he didn’t care about her.

But the evidence was there, where she could feel it, flickering across this distance that wasn’t far at all, still left them close enough to hurt each other so much. She stared across this space full of old promises and new hurts and containing nothing, and she couldn't stand it, tears welling again in her eyes as this sunk in -- _is this really it? Can we fix this, ever?_

Rinoa looked up, for his face, for his eyes, and it came out of her without asking, his name, "Squall," sounding lost and almost swallowed up by the unbearable silence of the room. Her feet took a faltering step forward and for a horrible moment she remembered watching as her body did things, walked places, hurt others – her magic an uneven buzz inside her – but Squall came forward, too, and a ragged sob caught in her throat as it echoed another memory: him coming to save her and how the moment before they'd held each other had felt blue and infinite, and safe.

Her eyes blurred, wet, and she couldn't see and it didn't matter, because they met a few steps from his desk, and his arms came around her like they always had, enfolding her. Rinoa breathed in, smelling clean leather and warmth and safety and _Squall,_ and her exhale was damp and ragged into his chest as her hands clutched at his jacket.

Squall's hand came up to cradle her head, soft in her hair, blunt fingers gentle – and she started to cry, all the tears that had threatened to spill silently over the last days coming now in shaking rushes. She felt so empty, everything she had left leaking out of her in sobs.

She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and felt him tuck his chin over her head. Squall was all around her, solid and strong and holding her as she cried, got his shirt and his jacket and his collar wet; a half-laugh choked her for a moment, the way she was ruining his clothes and the face he would make, but it wasn't funny, at all. His arms tightened around her, making small comforting motions through her hair and the laugh escaped as one shuddering breath instead. Then his hand pressed her head gently against him, almost a spasm, and – _oh, Squall_ – she wrapped her arms around him tighter, as she realized so late that _he_ might want this, need this, too, this familiar thing. She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to hold in this feeling; bit her lip and held him as close as she could, a small pocket of lightness buoying up the hollowness inside her, tiny in all the scoured empty vastness of her but warm and safe and _theirs_.

He didn't say anything, and she couldn't, pressed in by the silence and thinking as hard as she could about the way he felt, the quiet strength of his arms and the smell of his skin, his fingers in her hair: memorizing everything. He held her as her sobs hollowed out – quieted, settled, until she was breathing shakily in his arms, eyes puffy and face drying slowly in the carefully conditioned air.

Awareness of the thick-ticking seconds crawled over her again, creeping across her skin as she _felt_ how long he'd stood there, holding her; felt it in the tension of his body, how he held that tightness carefully away from her. And it wasn't enough but it was more than nothing; time dripped on her skin and she thought stupidly of the phone call she'd interrupted, how the world wasn't standing still around them at all. She swallowed a sniffle. She used to feel – almost _warmed_ , when Squall caught her crying, like his regard turned the sticky feeling away; now she just felt wet and splotchy and tired, and so, so aware of keeping him.

She stepped away, and his hands slid off her – and for a moment she so badly _didn't want to look up_ – but she almost couldn't help it. His face was so serious, set and sad and tense. Rinoa swallowed. There was so much to say, and nothing she could voice.

He looked away first, and Rinoa almost staggered, as if the look between them had been all that propped her up; he turned to his desk and grabbed two papers off the very top. Their crackle echoed the stiffness of his hands and she watched numbly as he thrust them at her. Her hands came up to take them; her eyes bounced down to catch Quistis's name among too many capital letters and official words. And she looked up again, staring. _Is this it?_ she thought again, so _stupidly_.

Squall looked at her and she caught the faintest edges of thoughts, like cloud-shadows chasing across a sea and she didn't know if this was the tatters of the Bond or if she just knew his face so well: all the thoughts he never said, and the only one that made it out was, "Stay safe."

He looked at her for a moment more, almost searching, and then he was gone; the slam of the door made her jump, sliding off all the echoing spaces inside her.

_________________________________

  


Squall flipped the light on in their room – _his room_ – _their_ room; Rinoa was everywhere here, her touch evident in every single thing: the way she left the bed made but not military-neat, the pillow tossed haphazardly at the wall; the coffee-cup by the sink she’d declared ‘clean’ and he’d found two obvious lipstick-stains on yesterday. It was full of these things, so small and yet so critical, her shoes in the way of his closet again and he was glad to be leaving, glad to be going somewhere that didn’t smell like her shampoo, wasn’t full of her invisible fingerprints.

He sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, dialed Quistis’ extension.

“Quistis Trepe.” Her voice was professional and _blank_ , and Squall felt such relief at it.

“Quistis,” he said. “I’ve assigned you to a mission. Orders are in my office.” He didn’t elaborate.

He heard her breathe in, sharply, but she said nothing except, “I’ll be there shortly.”

"Thanks." Squall toggled the ringer, and thought for a minute, his finger idling on the phone. Normally Quistis would have stepped up to take his Commander duties in his absence, if nothing else had been going on, but – there were so many other things, so many spaces to fill. He _needed_ Quistis as Rinoa’s bodyguard, somehow; and he wondered how the misplaced awkward thing between himself and Quistis had become this silent, unacknowledged, distant and almost invisible bond of _trust,_ Quistis’s desire to be everyone’s big sister finally manifesting in her own reliable capability, the way she was just always _there_. But Quistis couldn’t do everything, and Squall needed – he didn’t want her distracted by the rest of his duties, by administrative paperwork: not now, not with dust settling in Timber and the biggest target in the world right on Rinoa’s forehead.

Instead, he dialed Zell's room, listening to the ringtone sound four times before there was a click and the sound of something falling to the ground.

"Dude, Squall, this is MY number."

It almost made him laugh, compared to Quistis' cool and impersonal professionalism. "Congratulations," he said, trying to stir up something in his voice, anything other than the cold silence he was feeling. "You're Commander for the next week or so.”

"Very funny," Zell said. "I think you have the wrong number. If this is a prank, Anthony, I'm gonna shove my foot so far up your--"

"Zell." All it took was his name, and that voice, the way Squall had been able to say things while they were out at war fighting Ultimecia and everyone just _listened,_ obeyed, the power of command seeping into his words in a way that had always made him uneasy, even as he made sure to use it, because they couldn't have any questions. "I'm going to Esthar to meet with them about the Garden site. You're in Command while I'm gone."

Zell spluttered. "But Quistis--"

"Is busy," Squall said, his tone of voice making it clear that this was not optional. "She'll be here if you have questions, but I need you to do this."

"No problem." Zell's agreement came almost too soon, and Squall wondered whether he'd feel bad about this in the future, putting so much unfamiliar work on Zell's shoulders; it was hard to be concerned about it, though, when he knew it would keep Rinoa safe, and was it awful that even with his heart beat-up and silenced he still _cared_ enough to do these things? To divide up his own workload in a way that put Rinoa at the center, first and foremost? It was all he knew how to do.

"Thanks," he said.

Zell snorted in laughter: "Thank me when you get back, jackass. T-Boards are gonna be legal – no, mandatory, and you’re gonna get a detention."

He hung up. Rinoa had been at his desk, too, sometime in the past few days – probably trying to help; she’d stacked the papers neatly in a way Squall could tell had undone any semblance of filing he’d attempted. He booted up his console. Last night he’d sent a funding request to Cid for the Esthar trip; he was surprised to see it, already returned and approved, in his inbox: usually Cid took days to reply. _He must really want me to get this fucking thing settled._ Squall frowned, but transferred the requisition code onto his account dutifully. He booked the first train he could find, clicking the upgrade to _private booth_ with dark relish: maybe he’d be able to get _something_ out of this trip, namely rest.

He didn’t book a train home. _Don’t know how long it’ll take,_ he told himself.

He fired the details off to Loire’s account and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes.

Esthar. He was going, and he was going alone. Here, in a room full of her touch, he could admit that a small part of him had been hoping – expecting – thinking that Rinoa might offer to go with him: a peace offering, maybe, just a gesture that she was willing to give him _something;_ a small vital step away from the danger that was Timber, a significant sign that she was listening to his concerns, if not fully understanding them. He didn’t know what she was going to do here in Garden anyway – but Quistis was here, and Zell was here, and Selphie could be called back from Trabia at any time Rinoa wanted; and there were still phones and computers to keep in touch with Timber.

Maybe they did need a break. Funny word, that; Squall already felt like things were _broken._

He got up and grabbed his duffel bag and started to pack, methodically; her things buzzed against his hands, upsetting the walls he’d tried to construct around their Bond, around his feelings, around his heart. He moved a stack of her shirts aside, and they felt warm against his fingers, as if they’d just come from the dryer or from her body. Squall threw his dress shoes into the duffel bag with more force than necessary, but the echo remained, Rinoa’s fingers rubbing polish into them as she smirked (“You mean they didn’t train the big bad SeeD how to clean his own shoes?” “…Whatever.”) – and then he sat down on the bed, trying to ignore the way it smelled of her, still seemed to carry her body heat.

The Bond felt like it was _sloshing_ around in his head, a glass overflowing with the rocking of the sea beneath it; he held his head in his hands, trying to get a grip on it – but it slipped away like water, almost mocking his attempts to handle something so intangible: Rinoa, slipping through his fingers, the things they’d shared suddenly liquid, seeping into all these cracks–

–and then there was silence; his head pounding between his ears and the onset of an awful headache, but silence. _Too much_ silence, and he wasn’t sure whether to be scared or grateful: had she done this, pulled the magic back inside herself? He certainly hadn’t; the Knight never had any power here, no control. Had she done him a favor, or was this just another symptom of the space growing between them, the walls they were building?

Squall finished packing in record time, because it wouldn’t hurt for him to be early for the train, and he didn’t want to stay in this too-quiet room any longer: a part of him still lingering, his instincts listening for Rinoa’s slow sleeping breath even though he knew she wasn’t there.

_________________________________

  


“No,” Laguna repeated, “he goes in the guest wing, _I don’t care._ ” He and his team were bustling down the hall – he’d never really been able to precisely say he’d _bustled_ before, but there was no better word to describe this restless, semi-panicked group movement, rustling and thumping and papers flying every which way and – “Shit,” he said, “I have to call Ellone, someone write that down!” His heart felt too big, too loud, not yet thumping in panic but buzzing as if preparing for it, training for the upcoming emotional marathon.

An aide hurried to his side, scribbling on a pad of paper in a haste that had him bumping into no less than two walls and a councilman as he completed the sentence. “Mr. President,” the aide said, almost gasping for breath – why were all his aides and team members so out of shape? Was he gonna have to implement mandatory team volleyball again? – “Here’s your list, sir.”

Laguna took it and turned the corner into the guest wing. “This room,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the door with force. “I want it cleaned – spotless! – and turned down. Stock the liquor. Get a console installed with our fastest connection. And I want it done by lunchtime.” He frowned, and tried to remember to breathe – but this was so much more important than breathing, and if it caught up to him he might never–

“Laguna?” He looked up to see Kiros and Ward at the end of the hall, and his heart _lifted_ in relief: finally, _competence,_ in the form of his two best friends, people he trusted more than aides, companions who would know what he wanted before he asked. Hell, friends who would have better ideas than his own. Breath hissed out on its own, relieved and happy, and Laguna felt dizzy with it. Kiros leaned against the wall and smirked in obvious amusement at Laguna’s panic. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s Squall,” Laguna said, and Kiros’ eyebrows rose; Kiros and Ward both _knew,_ without words, what _that_ meant. It carried all the things the three of them had never really bothered to talk about, because what was there to say? _Do you regret any of it?_ Would it matter if he did? Did it matter if he didn't? Squall was who he was, grown now, and it was pretty much too late for regrets, from Laguna's point of view. (Didn't stop him from having some, but he carried them around like a secret, tucked in a pocket of his heart he didn't much look at.)

“He’s coming in tonight. Well, tomorrow morning. He’s on the train now. To look at the Garden sites.” The explanation felt woefully empty. He wanted to say, _to see his dad, to get to know his father, to hang out with his old man_ – but none of that was guaranteed, and he was both hoping for it and afraid of it; part of him wasn't ready to have a son, hadn't ever been ready, and instead of a son he had a nineteen-year-old mercenary whose conversation consisted of ellipses and nobody wrote parenting books about _that._ There wasn't enough time in the world to rationalize this, to think it out, to plan for the conversation they would have to have; Laguna could think for years and still have no answers, and Squall was going to be here tomorrow anyway so years weren't even an option, and that was probably for the best, everything considered. He didn't even know if Squall knew, and that was the worst part of it, that of all the things unsaid between them he might have to start with those words.

Kiros looked at Ward. Ward shrugged one shoulder, his lips in a smirk which was both understanding and amused.

“Ward says we’ll help.” Kiros lifted himself off the wall, angled grace, and came down the hall to clap a hand on Laguna’s shoulder: congratulations? Solidarity? Sympathy? Laguna wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter, though; he felt a rush of confidence, suddenly, through the swirl of misplaced panic he’d been so overwhelmed with. His spirits lifted, and he remembered: _Squall! Coming to see me!_ It wasn't _all_ bad.

“Okay,” he said to the cluster of aides. “You guys go, uh, get this room ready, and all the other stuff we need for an honored guest. We’ll take care of the rest of it.”

The group _bustled_ out of the hallway and Kiros snorted, crossing his arms. “Fine group of helpers you’ve got there.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” Laguna threw his hands wide, because he meant it on a lot of levels: he'd stared at the phone and cycled through elation and panic and sorrow until they'd all blended, mixing like a terrible cocktail he'd just done three shots of. “I couldn’t find either of you, and I wasn’t going to just sit on my butt, there’s so much I have to get done before he gets here…”

“Laguna. Calm down.” Kiros’ voice was so steady and confident that Laguna felt instantly better: _how does Kiros_ do _that?_ The hand on his shoulder squeezed, as reassuring as Kiros had always been, battle-strength tempered with the kind of common sense that could cut through the world's worst bullshit. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Are you sure?” His voice sounded wretched and embarrassing even to his own ears. It was _awful_ how much he cared, as if he could make up for so many years of not caring (although he _hadn't known!_ he cried again, mentally, like excuses were any legitimate kind of currency) by making sure Squall had the best threadcount sheets and a fully stocked minibar? God, he wanted to laugh at himself. "How do you know?"

Ward made some kind of noise, and Kiros shot him a deeply amused look before saying, “Ward’s thinking, how can it go wrong, it’s Laguna? And we’re both laughing.” His face must have twisted, because Kiros’ smile opened up, immediately reassuring. “Come _on,_ Laguna. Yes, it’s going to be fine. Really.”

Laguna exhaled, slowly; there were so many ways it could go _wrong_ and his brain was still trying to come up with one way that was _right_ : they were family but weren't; they were soldiers, but more; famous but not; leaders, Commanders and Presidents, father and son and the only similarity he could come up with was that both their weapons involved shooting things and that was the kind of thing that would make Squall roll his eyes and turn his back on everything Laguna wanted to offer but didn't know he had. There weren't any obvious ways this could work, no perfect sets into which Squall and he would simply _fit,_ like pieces of a puzzle: but he had to try, because not trying meant getting absolutely nothing and what he wanted was – anything more than that.

“Laguna.” Kiros' voice leapt into his thoughts, and his friend grinned. “If you don’t give us something to do, we’re going to leave.”

“Don’t you dare,” he said, but he was grinning back. “I will die of stress, and then Kiros will have to be President, and everyone will be mad because they know you throw shit parties."

Ward nodded, emphatically, and Kiros was kind enough to let the jest by, simply throwing Laguna the kind of look he knew he'd be grateful for later. The situation righted itself, oriented itself, because he had help and he had friends who wanted him to succeed, no matter how far _success_ in this particular case might be from its original definition. It would be as okay as it could be, and then – he and Squall could have a chance to do the rest.

_________________________________

  


She stood there in his office, crumpled papers in her hand and nothing but emptiness in her heart, echoing strangely off of new surfaces – and is this how it would feel, now? Had they _broken_ their Bond with this, the one source of grounding stability for her wild magic now lying in pieces on the floor along with shatter-shards of herself, her heart? Rinoa choked back a sob, and gathered her hair back from her face with one shaking hand. She felt small, and lost, and a myriad mixture of other things she didn’t even have words for.

There was a knock at the door.

"Squall?" Quistis pushed the door open slowly, and then stopped, startled. "Rinoa, I'm sorry. I got a phone call...?"

"Oh," she said, struggling to assemble something like a smile on her face. "Yeah. Here." She passed the papers to Quistis and wanted to sigh: she felt both relieved and panicked, her last link with Squall just handed off in one simple gesture. Quistis took them, her bemused expression fading into professionalism as she started to read. Rinoa watched her quick eyes scan the orders, almost absently. She was still _so mad,_ all of the shards of it still bouncing around inside her, and yet she almost understood Squall's concern – an understanding he wasn't giving her; although that was unfair too. Squall probably understood, he just didn't _care_ like she did. Rinoa thought about Timber as Quistis read. She thought about the elementary school that had almost been hit; she thought about the library which had.

Quistis looked up, blue eyes sharp, and Rinoa started - she'd been staring, absently, and Quistis' face was covered with the kind of questions Quistis would never voice. Rinoa started, and Quistis smiled in that kindly blank way she had, framed to save its recipient from the most embarrassment possible. "Sorry," Rinoa said, and her heart wrenched as for a moment she wanted to spill it all to Quistis: all her troubles, thrown into a pile at Quistis’ feet, for her to patch up and bind back together like she seemed so good at doing. "Is something, um, wrong?"

"Not at all." Quistis' words were chosen carefully, as if she didn't believe them herself for a second, and Rinoa almost laughed – of course something was wrong, everything was wrong, there were probably still tear-tracks on her face and she was buzzing with unspent magic like a plucked string and Squall was already too far away. Rinoa swallowed, choked it down, stood almost-straight. Quistis licked her lips a little, as if choosing her next words even more carefully: "Is there a specific reason Squall has assigned me to be your bodyguard?"

"Timber," Rinoa began, the words catching in her throat. She sighed; where to start? Everyone knew the political situation in Timber, but how much would she have to explain before she hit the wall of Squall's edict, his trip to Esthar, her broken heart and their break - she remembered now, Quistis had seen her last night in fine form as always; did Quistis know about the bombing yet?

"Are we going to Timber now?" Quistis pursed her lips, in thought. "That–" Her eyes trailed meaningfully to the paper in her hand. "That would make sense, then," she said, half to herself.

 _Timber._

Rinoa thought again of the library, the pieces of smoldering rubble smoking in Timber's setting sun, a city silhouette that would never look exactly the same - she wanted to be there; she _needed_ to be there, in a way Squall didn't really understand: and in that minute she knew she had to go. _If I stay in Balamb, I'll go crazy._ The unstable Bond quaked at that, as if reminding her just how easy that would be. Rinoa shuddered. _Timber. I could go home._ She wanted to go home; suddenly needed it, a bell-peal ringing down her spine and through her bones, out her fingers; she tingled with it. She needed to get out of here, away from this place that was empty of her and full of Squall–

Squall would be _so angry._

She opened her hands before her and looked down into them, as if she could somehow read in her palms what to do. In one hand lay her last tenuous link with Squall: his desires to keep her safe, his worries for her, his well-meant concern and the sense of protection the Bond compelled from him, for her; the cage of Balamb, and the lonely limits of Garden. In the other hand, Timber: _her_ home, her calling, danger and suffering and security tied up together, needing her and wanting her. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard. If she followed her heart to Timber, would she lose the part of her heart Squall held on to?

"Rinoa?" The voice was tentative. "Are you all right?"

She glanced up. In between her two hands... there was Quistis.

Squall would be mad, yes. But she, Rinoa, could be responsible about this: she could respect his wishes without letting them box her in. She couldn't stay; staying would ruin her, change her, make her feel less _herself_ than the day she'd told the world she was a Sorceress. But she could at least say she'd listened; she'd been willing to compromise his desires with her own. She had a bodyguard, and a damn good one: she was going to use this. Besides... it had been Quistis' idea in the first place.

"We're going to Timber," Rinoa confirmed, and her voice sounded so sure, so solid, she knew she had made the right choice.

Quistis nodded, and Rinoa took a breath – there was nothing in the orders, then, about _keeping_ her confined to Garden, and the mix of relief _(I’m not making her break orders, then)_ and guilt _(Squall trusted me to stay)_ made her stomach churn. She didn’t – she couldn’t chance running into Squall, for so many reasons; when was the train to Esthar? If she knew Squall – did she? – he’d leave right away.

“We’ll go on the late afternoon train,” Rinoa said, and her heart leapt at the thought of home.

  



	3. Chapter 3

Quistis sat back in her seat, settling into the couch as Rinoa curled up across from her and closed her eyes.  The other girl looked exhausted, Quistis noted; she had apparently had a hard couple days, and it was showing in simple strain on her face. She wouldn't begrudge Rinoa a nap at all; whatever had happened with Squall had to be exhausting, because things involving Squall... generally _were_ exhausting.

She thought about a nap, but truth be told she wasn't really all that tired; her past few weeks had been strangely empty, full of routine lessons and staff meetings and particularly boring detentions (not that she minded; if she never saw Seifer Almasy on a detention list again, she might die happily in battle) and not much else. She loved teaching again; liked most of her students, still thrilled every day to wake in Garden.  But life, somehow, hadn't been as full after they'd returned from the... war.  From the future.  The closeness they'd all shared - the hot touch of battle, Selphie's hands barking Protect against her skin while Irvine poured Curaga into a wound, Zell's hands flying beside Squall's blade and before Rinoa's spells, her own Blue Magics summoned from that wild part of her to save and scorch and deliver - it had vanished along with the battlefield.  They still saw each other, still greeted each other, but it wasn't at all the same: the reality of _reality_ had put distance between them, an intangible spacer separating their hearts and minds.

Or maybe Quistis had just felt useless: her students graduating, her friends moving on, her life coming back full-circle.  She was good at feeling useless. 

Squall's frantic call had sounded like a godsend: _important_ work, something she could do, something she could be good at.  Her hands had felt idle; her brain, numb.  And yet here she was, on this important mission, and all Quistis felt was the sour tang of a disappointment she didn't really understand.

That Squall and Rinoa had fought, that maybe they _had_ taken a break - it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. She recognized the difficulty one might face, serving as a bodyguard to an ex. And yet she couldn't really feel anything but _used,_ summoned up from a stack of manila folders like any other highly-ranking SeeD and matched to the mission like a color-coded chess piece.  Squall hadn't even waited to tell her in person; he'd handed her _papers_ off to Rinoa, as if she were an accessory: a portable Protect spell, a White Wind that followed you everywhere.  She'd been _assigned,_ not asked, and the difference stung in a way she wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge.

It didn't really matter; she'd do the job to the best of her ability, because it was her job - but also because her heart went out to Rinoa. She knew Squall could be difficult, and she'd never even had the dubious honor of dating him; it couldn't be easy for them. Some small part of her wondered whether they'd consider her feelings thus – but Quistis just squared her shoulders and opened her mission assignment again: she'd do it anyway, all of it, to the best of her ability.  It was really all she could do, wasn't it?

  


_________________________________

  


Zone and Watts were there, as soon as they got off the train, and their faces lit in mutual relief when they saw her – and Rinoa let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, because it was so much more than one pent-up breath: a tension she'd been nursing since that morning phone call, carried in her shoulders and back, eased slightly at the sight of her two friends.  Watts' face was lined with worry, and Zone looked exhausted – too exhausted to fake stomach pains, she thought suddenly, and was amused to find she could still give the ghost of a smile.

Quistis followed her off the train with cool efficiency, but Rinoa was already running, throwing one arm around Watts and one around what she could reach of Zone, and they squeezed her back and she was _so glad_ she had come: her family, here, _everything will be alright,_ standing beside her, their arms around her, and they kind of fumbled in an awkward heartfelt group hug for a few precious moments. Rinoa's heart swelled with it, and the warmth brought her to tears, and she hid her head in Zone's shoulder for a second until she could gather herself together, because she _could not cry,_ not right now.

They fell apart, all of them smiling a little funny. Quistis stood off to the side, wearing the polite, detached smile she often did in group situations; Rinoa waved her over, and made room for her in their small circle.

"Guys, you remember Quistis, right? Quisty, you know Zone and Watts.  Quistis is here with me for--"  How to explain?  "She's here to help me, for a while."  She really, _really_ did not want to get into it.  "So what's up? Where do we stand?"

Zone ran a hand through his hair and took her elbow, turning her towards the exit. "Rinoa, sssh, come _on._ You know we shouldn't discuss it here, right."

Rinoa followed meekly; he was right, of course: Galbadia had shown time and time again their ability to sneak behind any defenses they thought they had securely in place.  And yet... it stung, really, because _she_ was the _public face_ of the revolution, a symbol of the resistance, and she'd really done it for _them,_ and having to hide inside their own city because Timber just wouldn't stand up for it–

She sighed, and glanced over her shoulder. Behind her, Quistis said nothing, but her eyes were alert and her posture tense: SeeD on duty.

Zone led her through Timber, and Rinoa felt resentment swelling within her; Timber was _her_ town, too, and she knew the way to the Owls’ headquarters just as well as he: it was stupid, this jealousy, but Zone was the leader of the Owls in name and she hadn’t wanted to take that from him, hadn’t wanted to make it an issue even as she risked her own life and reputation as Sorceress for their cause – maybe it was stupid and childish, to not bring it up; Squall probably would have. He needed these things clarified, organized: a clear chain of command with references, leaders and followers quite concretely defined.  The thought made another wave of resentful anger swamp her, her heart twisted; Squall had never taken the Owls seriously. He thought they were a joke, a disorganized and ridiculous organization, just because they didn’t follow SeeD rules or adhere to military standards...

Zone turned down a street she hadn’t expected, and Rinoa felt irritation surge in her head, a high shrilling note of anger: was he trying to show off, wander the streets of Timber with her on his arm, parading _his_ captive Sorceress for all to see? She’d show them – she’d show them who the leader was, show them what power meant, show everyone that Sorceress belonged to no-one–

A cold chill sank into her stomach, nauseous and shivering, because this anger _wasn’t her own._ Rinoa swallowed past tight bile and tried to breathe, deep. Timber’s clear air smelled of leaves and road and use, a working city, a people’s city.  She breathed in Timber and tried to breathe out this angry resentment, this feeling of challenge, the magic buzzing in her head; the faint misaligned echo of the Bond rang in her ears.  Breathe in air, sunlight, dried leaves and flowers and freedom: breathe out, Rinoa, just breathe out...

Belatedly, she realized Zone was taking them to the library.  She pitched her voice to sound like casual conversation: “So how bad is it, really?”

“The library?” Zone’s voice was mild, and Rinoa realized he was deliberately misunderstanding her question, and she felt a spike of irritation that was all her own: familiar, hot and shameful and imperfect. “Ruined.  It’s gone.  They knew what they were doing.”

“I meant Timber.”  She smiled at a handful of people standing on a street-corner; some smiled back and some didn’t.  Rinoa could see recognition in their eyes, the strange backwards feeling of being known by someone she didn’t know. “What happened here during? What happened after? Did anyone step up?”

Zone said nothing for a long minute.  This was a strange thing between them: Zone had kept leadership of the Timber Owls mainly because he _lived_ in Timber; Rinoa could in no conscience take over and still spend half of her weekends in Balamb Garden... and yet her fame lived in the empty spaces around them, an unseen and unfelt force separating them, wearing away at years of friendship like water around a stone.  Finally he took a breath to speak, and Rinoa felt a wave of relief that he wasn’t going to pick this fight today.  “No one has said anything.  People have been staying home – stocking up on water bottles and the like. I think people are just going to sit this one out until it blows over.”  He blew out a long breath of frustration and something else Rinoa couldn’t quite read.  “Like always.”

“No.”  Rinoa clenched her hands into fists. “Zone, this is ridiculous. It has to stop. We can’t fight this without Timber at our back, we just can’t.”

“I know.”  Zone shrugged, though, as they turned the corner towards the library.  “But... what can we do.”

“I’ll think of something,” Rinoa swore. She wished there were a way to spread the fire in her heart, to make this pulsing bleeding force within her something concrete, natural, helpful: _yessssssssss,_ it whispered at her, suddenly dark and tempting and swelling within, ripples spreading along the surface of the magic and reflecting off of angles that weren’t there, the myriad of dark faceless creatures at the bottom of this pool.

Rinoa shuddered, and Zone smiled at her, misreading her fears – and Rinoa made no move to correct his misconception.  Whatever was happening between her and her magic would stay there, for now. She had other things to focus on.

  


_________________________________

  


Rinoa sighed, and sank down into the chair, lowering her head into her hands for a moment, hair pooling in a dark liquid cloud over her arms. Quistis watched and tried not to fidget, because this felt very private - a moment of weakness she wasn't sure she was supposed to be privy to (did Rinoa even remember she was _here?_ ) – but then Rinoa took a breath, deep and ragged behind the somber curtain of her hair, and when she sat up her face was weary but resigned, determined again.

"You may as well sit," Rinoa said to her. "Frankly, if I'm not safe _here,_ everything's going to hell anyway."

Quistis sat, although she wasn't necessarily sure she agreed with Rinoa's judgment call on this situation: "What is this particular place, anyway?"

"Timber Owls Central."  The ghost of a grin flickered across her face, like a candleflame.  "We've taken this as our headquarters, although we have all our meetings in a building about two blocks down. Watts set up some really high-quality security - you should check it out, something he picked up on the White SeeD Ship, I guess – and this building is password-protected to those of us who are in the inner circle."

Quistis frowned.  "So what's keeping Galbadia from blowing it to smithereens?"

Rinoa opened a hand.  "It's in the middle of Timber.  They want us under their thumb, but not destroyed.  The buildings connect, so there are all kinds of escape routes – if they tried to blow us up here, we'd almost surely get out, and they'd be left with a mess that got them nowhere."

The frown deepened; Quistis was starting to realize the kind of situation she'd been put in: it was feeling more and more like an impulse assignment, as if Squall had thrown her at the problem without really thinking or, you know, enunciating relevant details.  _And he was so angry at the original Timber assignment._   She thought, resignedly, that maybe she should feel flattered; being a tool powerful enough in Squall's repertoire to be trusted to turn this mess of a situation into something neat and orderly was probably in Squall-talk a compliment of the highest order - but mainly, Quistis was starting to get a headache.

"So... what, exactly, is the situation here?"  Quistis pursed her lips, and then elaborated: "Meaning between Timber and Galbadia.  Where do things stand?"

Rinoa blinked, as if surprised to have to explain – and Quistis felt suddenly guilty for not following it herself, not being up on the situation her friend so dearly cared about – but then Rinoa closed her hand into a loose fist again and took a deep breath.  "The conflict between Timber and Galbadia has been going on for a long time.  It's been serious for about a generation - Zone and Watts are famous around town because their dads were executed together for being a part of the resistance, right?  But the dynamic has changed, really sharply, in the past couple months or so."

Her fingers drummed on the table, an absent beat.  "It had ramped up pretty seriously about - well, when we all met."  A smile flashed across Rinoa's face, fleeting tribute to everything that had happened.  "Galbadia was just starting to take us seriously, and then - the Sorceress killed Deling.  Suddenly it was the chance we'd been waiting for."  Her voice faltered, a little, and Quistis picked up a complex undercurrent she wasn't sure she could entirely decipher: _Edea,_ Deling, Rinoa's father, strange advantageous regret.  "Except that I was traveling with you all, and things just... spun out of control."

Rinoa's gaze on the table was vague and unfocused for just a moment, and then Quistis watched as she gathered herself together.  "Anyway.  The war with Ultimecia... changed everything. Of course.  When I got back here, though, we realized how big of an opportunity we had.  Galbadia Garden is crippled, Galbadia itself is a mess, and the rest of the world is in a place where they're more willing to accept change than before."

She paused, as if waiting to see whether Quistis understood.  "I'm guessing there's a 'but' coming," Quistis said.

Rinoa snorted.  "Of course.  We're still fighting, right?"  Her fingers splayed across the table, palms pressing into it as she breathed.  "Galbadia right now is a disaster, but they've got years of clever politics to fall back on.  The president-elect they've got right now is toeing a very careful public line: he says that Galbadia will be willing to treat with Timber and possibly negotiate a path to independence as soon as we show that we can secure and control our own city."

"Wait." Quistis frowned.  "But aren't they the ones causing all the conflict?"

"Of course," Rinoa said, "but not directly.  Publicly, they've declared this willingness to work with us as soon as we show we can clean up our own mess like grownups.  But behind everyone else's back, they're funding terrorist attacks on us."  Her voice turned hard.  "Guerrilla warfare. Bombings.  Riots.  They fund it all under the table, in the shadows, giving weapons and information to a handful of fanatics and letting them stir the pot."

"And to the rest of the world," Quistis reasoned, "it looks like you can't even control your own borders."

"Pretty much."  Rinoa drummed her fingers on the table again, idly.

"So," Quistis said, fascinated, because this was a complex side of Rinoa she'd only ever really guessed at: the analytical, but it wasn't just reporting facts: it was _understanding,_ being able to cast motivations on things, deciphering them from the political into the human, a strength she should have realized Rinoa had but had never really put to words.  "What is your strategy?"

Rinoa smiled, grim.  "We're going at them from a couple angles. The first thing we did was go public – most of the resistance in Timber has had to be in secret, because Galbadia was too obviously up in our face.  But. The Timber Owls were already a bit famous because of Watts and Zone, and after the Ultimecia thing..."  She shrugged, as if trying to play it off.  "I had a lot of political capital to use, a lot of... fame.  So I cashed in on it.  The Owls came out. We made ourselves known. Told Galbadia they weren't going to get away with silencing us any more."

Her voice may have been light, but the way her face darkened wasn't; Quistis wondered what it had cost Rinoa, to do this – if she'd even considered the costs, or if she'd just gone ahead with it, assuming like always that things would work out the way she wanted them to.

"What we're trying to do now is– well, a couple things.  Timber needs to establish itself internationally – to show that we _can_ stand without Galbadia. But tied to that is this... this state of war.  We _need_ to tie some of these attacks back to Galbadia. If we can prove they're doing it, or even that they're paying for it – or, hell, even if we can show that they're looking the other way while people come into our town and bomb our children, we win." Her voice had gone passionate, all hard and demanding.  "If we can prove to the rest of the world that we're strong enough to take care of ourselves – and part of doing that is getting Galbadia the hell _out_ – they'll have no choice but to start to negotiate with us."

One thing had been bothering Quistis.  "If everyone knows it's Galbadia behind this, how do they still get into Timber to - bomb libraries?"

Rinoa's turned stormy in a desperate sort of anger.  "It's pretty easy.  The Owls are the public face of the resistance, but not everyone wants their face and name associated with us. It wasn't so long ago that people were killed for that kind of thing." Her eyes flared, somber and burning.  "There are a lot of people who don't want to be _directly_ involved, and there are enough people... Timber's broke."  She exhaled.  "So when some nice-looking guy comes in and says he'll give you thousands of gil if you look the other way..."  Her hands clenched into fists again, and Quistis recognized helplessness – a feeling she was too familiar with.  "Part of what we're doing is just plain getting the message out," Rinoa bit out.  "Whoever let the Galbadians in to destroy the library - I'm sure they didn't know what was going to happen.  But it still happened.  People need to _know_ that it's happening."

The door opened, and Watts stuck his head in.  "I have a report, sir. Are you...?" He trailed off, the question obvious, his eyes flicking to Quistis and back as if either shy or reluctant to look at her.

Rinoa stood up, and she shrugged at Quistis, her mouth quirking a little in a sort-of amused smile: _we can continue later._

The door had _just_ closed behind Rinoa when Watts grabbed Quistis by the wrist, tugging her towards the small table in the corner covered with pizza boxes and empty take-out containers; Quistis hissed at the surprise of it, jerking her arm back. If this overgrown imbecile thought she was here to _clean_ , she was more than ready to teach him a lesson, no matter what Rinoa said--

"Shh!"  Watts glanced up at the door.  "Look, there's something else you need to know, sir, and I don't wanna bring it up while she's around, okay? Just hear me out, real quick."

Quistis blinked, and then narrowed her eyes, suddenly all business. 

"I know you're here as her bodyguard, right? An' none of us are going to get in your way, trust me. But you should know - it isn't just Galbadia that's watching Rin here."

"What do you mean?" Who else would be following Rinoa's movements? The list was actually quite long. Quistis frowned.

Watts glanced up at the door again, and then leaned in close. "There's a good number of people here who aren't exactly pro-Sorceress, sir.  And since Rin's been fighting with us... the numbers are growing."  He looked down at the ground, and his face was somewhat sad.  "She knows - it's no secret or anything – but she doesn't like to talk about it, because she feels... guilty, I think. Bringing more trouble here."

"I can... see that."  Her frown deepened.  No wonder Rinoa didn't want to confront that hard truth – Quistis suspected she'd admitted to her powers without even realizing that Sorceress sentiment swung both ways, even in places set to benefit.  "I'll certainly keep my eyes open. And if you find out anything--"  She swallowed, because maybe this was the wrong way to go about it, but Rinoa just seemed so _tired_.  "If something's happening, come to me first. I'll try to take care of it myself, so that Rinoa can stay focused."

The smile Watts gave her was relieved, pleased, and tinted with a level of admiration that would have reminded her of a Trepie if he hadn't been so genuine.  "Thanks," he said. "We all... we all care about her, you know." Quistis kept her eyes from flicking away in memory of her thoughts on the train, her misused and misplaced feeling.

"I know."  Her voice was only slightly wistful.

  


_________________________________

  


Rinoa stepped into her room, her home, and breathed in, a long long breath that made her eyes prick. Angelo had followed her; Rinoa shut the door behind them both and walked across to the window, listening to the familiar heavy fall of her boots on the floor, the creak of the boards in all the known places. The curtains hung limply by the casement and on impulse Rinoa flung the window open, turning, duster flying out behind her like wings, to watch the light curtains unfurl in the breeze, to feel the air come sighing through the room; Angelo danced up onto her hind legs and snapped her mouth playfully at the wind and small debris – scraps of leaf and twig from the nearby woods – that came blowing in. Rinoa laughed, and gave Angelo a small scratch on her head; the dog quieted and sat by her side, looking up at her with her serious, attentive dog eyes, letting Rinoa's fingers idle in her fur, around her ears. Rinoa leaned against the windowframe, and turned to look outside.

Timber spread out before her, earnest industry clouding the skyline with steam, trees swaying along every horizon– and her heart caught in her throat, black and choking, as she felt the barest brush of something vast and dark and feral: _Our place, Ours... this belongs to Ussss_.... the quietest hiss-whisper in her mind and she thought of the words on the TV Station screen, Adel's silent Sorceress shouts in the static, _IWILLNEVERLETYOUFORGETABOUTME_ , a distant and terrible urge to _have-own-possess-rule_ sweeping over a corner of her mind, stirring echoes and echoes and echoes and she shut her eyes, hard, choking down the sting of tears: _no no no stop it!_ The feeling hovered over her like the shadow of vast wings, pressing up her spine with all the moon's gravity and she pushed against it with everything she had, begged, pleaded, _no, this isn't yours, this isn't mine, this is_ home _, this is_ shared _, stop it stop it,_ until at last she turned away, collapsed under the window where she couldn't see the vast view. The feeling hovered – alien but all-too-close, sneaking poisonous into her blood – for a few more moments, and then popped like a soap bubble, evaporating all at once and it left her gasping, holding back sobs of fear, staring at the floor and her feet and unable to move: it had been so sudden, so much worse than any time before, the swift distant sweeps of feelings she didn't want to understand, huge dark urges, endlessness and pain and solitude, and she suddenly missed Squall _so much_.

Angelo nosed her, then, wet and cold and worried and Rinoa flung her arms around her, soft dog fur and stolid dog patience, Angelo waiting while Rinoa held her and slowly stopped shuddering, nuzzling her ear and hair. Angelo's steady heartbeat thudded gently up through Rinoa's arms, the quiet rises of Angelo's breath and the warm exhalations damp against Rinoa's shoulder, warm and solid and _here-and-now_. Rinoa breathed in the clean scent of her fur, shivering.

 _I'll train harder_ , she vowed to herself. She would control this. She would. She wouldn't become like the others. It didn't have to be that way. It didn't...

She gulped down the last aborted dregs of her sobs and rubbed at her eyes. Angelo stared at her worriedly, so Rinoa scratched her behind the ears, then squished her muzzle a little into a funny-fur-face, making a weird face in return, crossing her eyes. Angelo's tailless rear end wiggled hopefully at this familiar game, like she wanted it to be a good sign, and Rinoa laughed a little and tried not to hear the edge of sadness in it. She gave Angelo one last good scratch and collected herself off the floor, fighting the lingering unsteadiness of her legs. The window seemed to gape open behind her; she stubbornly left it open and went to her closet for a change of clothes.

The space between her shoulderblades itched in an unnerving echo of wings; she shrugged her shoulders and ignored it, reached for shirt and shorts. The mundaneness of it pressed against her skin, like feeling acutely the boundary where _she_ ended and the rest of the world – the normal world, where time didn't drip sideways and nothing endless waited – began. The soft cotton and jersey of her clothes felt unnaturally soft and textured against her fingertips. These hidden moments in her room... And downstairs they were waiting for her, so they could have their strategy meeting, decide what to do about the library, where to go from here. She felt like it was a world away, suddenly, on the other side of a wall: on that side, soldiers and spies and revolutionaries; on this side, Sorceresses and Knights. Or– just Sorceresses. Her heart gave an empty little flutter.

She made a stubborn face – at her empty closet, but Angelo gave a timely wuff to back her up – and grabbed clothes and towel and headed for what promised to be a heavenly shower. She could do this. With or without Squall – she swallowed – _she could do this_. She forced herself not to fumble for the Bond, not to look for that anchor-pull of reassurance. But she snuck a look both ways down the hall before scuttling for the shower, because she didn't know what stories her face would tell, and the window was still open behind her.

  


_________________________________

  


"All right," Rinoa said, "here's our plan.  Tomorrow is the speech at the library.  Before then, we need to make sure we clear out the perimeter – it would be just like Galbadia to add insult to injury and hit us again while we memorialized our loss."  She drummed her fingers on the table again, and this time it was the sharp roll of command Quistis heard.  "Watts, what can you tell us?"

"We've already done an initial scan of the area, sir."  Watts had a stack of unruly notes in front of him, and he shyly focused on those.  "The Forest Foxes have agreed to let us use their headquarters for the day. It's right by the library, and I've already cleared it for us.  We have their support for security during the speech, too."

"Good!"  Rinoa smiled at that.  "The more groups we can unite with this, the better. The more people we can get, the better.  Which brings me to my next point: today, we have to get the word out there that we're going to address this." 

She gestured at Zone, and he stood up and grinned, brandishing a thick stack of paper.  "Flyers," he said.  "We made 'em yesterday, and we need to plaster the town with them. Let people know where they can come to hear the story and hear what we're doing about it."  Then he frowned a little, and glanced at Rinoa.  "Which, um... what _are_ we doing about it?"

Quistis felt irritation spike behind her eyes; sudden sympathy for Squall’s complaints of watching the Forest Owls bicker about tiny details and never get momentum. Did they just not have a clue? And... where was _she_ in all of this mess? She couldn't help but feel – begrudgingly, of course – a little overlooked; she was a mercenary who'd run security missions for years, but no one had asked for even a minute of her time or guidance.  They had a SeeD; weren't they going to use her?

 _Of course not,_ she thought.  _What do you really have to offer? You don't know Timber like they do. You're just here as Squall's insurance, to keep Rinoa safe. You're not here to actually_ help.

The thought of Squall made her glance at Rinoa again _._ Rinoa was flipping through the flyers idly, glancing them over, sorting through the various designs and slogans Zone had printed. Rinoa's leadership was nothing like Squall's; but then again, Quistis thought, her staff wasn't anything like Squall's, either.  She was so used to crisp military command; watching Rinoa stop, think, converse, plan, in a state of complete indecisiveness, felt very strange.

"It depends," Rinoa replied once she'd made her way through the stack of flyers.  "If we can find something – anything - pinning this particular attack to Galbadia, then we have something to negotiate with.  I'd like to get this picked up by the major papers and magazines, too, but I want to wait until after the speech, in case something happens."  She frowned.  "And then I guess we'll just submit our demands to Deling City again and see what they say this time."

Quistis felt another flare of frustrating irritation, pinching her nerves; this didn't seem like a very efficient plan. _But who are you to judge that?_ She was just a hired hand, not an analyst. 

"Okay!" Rinoa pressed her hands into the table.  "Zone, you're in charge of the flyers. Take your team and go!  Watts, meet with the Foxes and keep working on security.  Quistis, I guess you're with me. We're going to start going door-to-door in the neighborhoods around the library and invite them to be heard at tomorrow's meeting."

The task was just as exciting as it sounded: Quistis followed Rinoa from door to door, feeling increasingly awkward with her SeeD uniform and silent demeanor, as Rinoa implored house after house and family after family to come out and be heard the next day.  Her message was the same at every house – “We want to be heard, not just by Timber but by the rest of the world” – but its demeanor changed depending on the reception: a warm greeting brought forth Rinoa’s bright anger, while a more cautious welcome was answered with kind and gentle understanding, a contrast strategy Quistis wasn’t sure she understood.

Instead she spent most of the time trying to learn the neighborhood near the library; they circled it as if on a tether, spiraling out and then in around the crime tape in a pattern she couldn’t distinguish – was Rinoa just bored or was there a method to this madness? She traced their steps in her head, trying to form the picture in her mind: the library as the centre, with potential attack hotspots and escape routes highlighted along the terrain.

She couldn’t help feeling increasingly out of place. Rinoa didn’t pay her much attention; all of her concentration appeared to be channeled inward, composing messages for Timber’s people. She occasionally glanced at Quistis, looking maybe equally unsure, but said nothing.  They just continued to walk in silence, and Rinoa spent all her energetic words and beaming smiles on the neighborhood.

Quistis tried not to wonder about all of it – about Timber, about the Owls’ strategy, about Squall and Rinoa and everything they hadn’t said – and simply continued following Rinoa, a few steps behind, uniformed and alert.

  


_________________________________

  


Her dreams carried her through the nights like folded-paper boats afloat on an endless ocean: she could sense that there were depths and depths below this, infinite and roiling, and oh, she was scared, the surface of her mind unsteady beneath her, like any minute she could be swamped by the vastness underneath. She woke up like she was drowning sometimes, small gasping shudders before she realized it was her own tears in her throat. Squall– when Squall had been there he would stroke her skin, tentative touches reminding her that he was there, that _she_ was there; he wouldn't say a thing but she remembered his eyes in the moonlight and his eyes never ended, echoing the infinities inside her and those moments had been needle-sharp and precious-gasping, a terrifying comfort – it had scared her so to know that he _understood_ , if only the edges of it; that he felt any part of what she did, these vast ancient things in their young skin. It frightened her so much, but she would reach for him, and he would hold her and it would be warm and safe and simple and not alone.

It hurt _so much_ to dream again and not have him there, right beside her or down the hall or a phone call away, rock-steady, anchoring her in her sea.

She breathed, in the darkness, breathed and shuddered and stared at the spill of starlight from the window until the sharp edges of the night softened in her throat, her breath no longer like ice in her lungs, on her skin.

The momentum of the train – of her headlong trip to Timber, as if she could outrun Squall's anger, Squall's orders, outrun her own fury at them – had seemed to carry her through the night, as if the train sped too fast for her dreams to catch up. She'd curled into an exhausted doze in the narrow train compartment – and Quistis quiet opposite her, a shadow glimpsed between fits of sleep; impossible to tell if Quistis was on alert watch through the night or asleep sitting up. She wouldn't put either one past Quistis. It felt like the forward motion hadn't ended when the train had steamed and groaned to a halt, a flurry of greeting, explaining, planning, carrying her along.

And now she had time to breathe, and the breath stuck in her throat: the night seemed to stretch on flat and forever around her, the deep roil of dreams under its surface and the empty wakefulness above. She was alone in her bed in Timber – and it felt so _stupid_ to be aware of that; she'd been alone here just _last week_ and this– this shouldn't, couldn't feel so _different_.

When she used to have bad dreams before – which before? so many befores – she would go stand at the window, look out on Timber at night: the soft moonlight mixing cool-warm with the street lamps, the light spilling out of windows and the dark loom of the TV station; the soft sway of trees behind everything. She loved Timber at night – and she remembered the shiver of possessiveness that had swept through her before, and her blood beat colder than the gentle chill of the night. Then her face set, stubborn, and she threw the covers off, padded barefoot over to the window, and leaned against the frame, watching.

The view was oddly stretched by the night, distances eaten by the dark, making the forest seem close and the horizon less vast and more empty; the details of the city were less overwhelming, just a few small things picked out by the lamps: a cat on its meandering patrol, a small party staggering home from a bar with companionable-steadying arms slung around shoulders; a couple walking hand-in-hand. Her dreams rose like an aftertaste in her throat, coming from up her spine, only a faint shadow; she exhaled it like a chill breath ( _this issss Minnneeeee)_. It fogged up the glass, and her hand rose to draw in it: the curl of a wing. Freedom.

Her eyes strayed beyond the little doodle, the small outline against the night-warped sweep of Timber, the exhalations of steam indistinguishable from the grey tatters of clouds; she thought of her own little breath against the glass. It left her feeling... insignificant. Loneliness stabbed through her gut, so _sharp_ , and a long echo of it pealed distantly inside her, too deep-vast to just be _her_ , like a far-off keen. She'd been avoiding reaching for the Bond and she knew it; she stood there before her view of Timber and fumbled inside for it, reaching, reaching; she brushed past Carbuncle and felt the small stir of interest, like a curious tilt of the head.

It ran– it ran like a _canyon_ , a hollowed-out space she could _feel_ , carved through the depths inside-behind her, strangely double layered– and a small trickle of sensation-thought-feeling seeped through her fingers: preoccupation, tiredness, the feel of papers under fingers, irritation and such a familiar grumpiness that she almost laughed, half-choking on it. And then it faded wrong-sideways and the little glow of warmth drained out of her, the picture of a wing fading in the sudden clear focus of her eyes as the Bond fluttered with her internal disturbances, the deep-dark currents washing around it and away; she thoughts of a leaf hanging threadily to a branch, rustling in a plucking wind.

Carbuncle's confused query floated through her, and she shook her head, her lip between her teeth. _I don't know_. She didn't know anything; she understood so little about being a Sorceress. Squall felt so far from her – could she only have one Knight, ever? If– if she and Squall couldn't pull this – couldn't pull _themselves_ – back together would it... feel this way together? Half-drowning, half-warm, half-there...

Rinoa jerked the curtains closed, turned to go back to bed– but the thought of the now-cold blankets against her skin, the waiting depth of her dreams, stirred by her seeking, pressed upon her, dry and cold. She stared at the empty bed for a second.

Then she went to the door, tiptoed quietly through the hallway. Quistis's door was a grey blot in the dark, and she paused outside it for long seconds, her heart loud and lonely in her ears. But her feet started forward again, until she got to the common room couch and flicked on a light, sifted through the papers and magazines for a notepad and pencil. She curled into a corner on the cushions, a blanket over her legs. She was no Quistis, to sleep on demand against the possible need for action and alertness later. But she could use this wakefulness, and her pencil scribbled across the printed lines, filling in the edges of a speech.

  


_________________________________

  


The room was small and simple, a narrow bed in the corner with a dresser (full of towels and linens) and a wood desk, warm and empty, topped with a few miscellaneous pens and an old beer bottle full of limp dried daisies.  It hadn’t taken long for Quistis to set herself up – security sweep of the premises completed in seconds, uniform and battle-gear sorted in her duffle bag, her whip coiled in a fiercely neat circle beside her portable console. From there she did some stretches, trying to empty her mind of the day, but her thoughts continued to circle themselves like the ends of Save the Queen, tucked into each other like a Malboro eating its tail, an endless repeating cycle.

 _Rinoa isn’t herself._ Here, in the privacy of the guest room, Quistis could finally admit it to herself. It complicated things, a deeply worrisome personal thread in the tangled web of their current situation.  All day, Rinoa had been a shadow of herself: something had moved between the girl and the brilliance that glowed within her, eclipsing her usual outgoing self into something focused in on itself, dimmed. It worried Quistis, because Rinoa always shone more in her natural environment; for such a disruption to be rearing its head in Timber of all places was greatly concerning. (Quistis didn't stop to think about her own predilection to people-watching, how she had made a habit and career out of observing those stars so much brighter and better than she: first Squall, now Rinoa, as if she were tracking the distant wheeling of a constellation.)

She had to assume it was related to Squall.  Rinoa’s orbit had changed to fit him; whatever had happened – a break, temporary or permanent – had to have altered her path somewhat.  Quistis didn’t like watching Rinoa this way, though, her intensity waning as her attention fled elsewhere. It made her worry. The situation here in Timber was worse than she’d thought, shallow tensions slicked across the surface of a deeper-rooted conflict like a breeze tickling a sleeping dragon; any one misstep could be fatal in this delicate minefield.

Somehow, Quistis found that she was _disappointed._   And when she thought about that, she realized she’d expected Rinoa to… deal with this more appropriately? Whatever break she and Squall had agreed on had to be mutual – neither Squall nor Rinoa was the type to cave to pressure, especially of the romantic sort, if for very different reasons – and she’d expected Rinoa to dive headfirst into Timber’s problems, channeling herself into productivity.  And she was... but she seemed distracted, almost hollow, as if the gesture were _predictable_ , hiding something else. Something deeper.

Quistis frowned, because so much of this sounded like sour grapes – _no one’s paying attention to me!_ – and she was a professional, a (discardable) mercenary assigned to a very simple mission. How much of her read on this situation was prompted by her own feelings of inadequacy, the barren wasteland inside of her that made her thought-processes feel dry and parched from lack of use? How much of this was mere jealousy – Rinoa had so many things to live for, causes to drive her forward and friends to help her on her way, and she was squandering these precious chances over a man too bull-headed to string together sentences? While Quistis waited patiently on the sidelines, honing her own (meager) talents and grasping at the thinnest of ropes? Watching constellations, hoping one day to be able to string together a thread of brightly-gleaming gems of her own?

The light on her console blinked, and Quistis sat up, the motion automatic and trained – and then she deliberately lay back down in the bed, reaching out to turn off the light.  No one from Garden could need her so urgently; whatever email message awaited her could certainly wait until morning.  She clenched her fists and then let the tension go, trying to force relaxation.

  


_________________________________

  


Rinoa's hands clutched at each other as she looked out at the assembling crowd from her vantage point, high upon a stable platform built from the library rubble: makeshift stage and podium, her own message pulled full-force from the ruins. It wasn't public speaking she minded - she'd always been good at that - it was the strange sense of foreboding, the awful feeling that sank in her stomach every time she looked out where the library had once been. It was the feeling of something off, something not-right inside and around her, whispers of an imbalance for which one bombed building was really only the beginning.  Timber made her heart ache; she did not think it would ever stop doing so.

"Thank you for coming," she said, pitching her voice to carry over the crowd gathered here, drawing their attention upwards to her, to her ruin-stage, to the issue at hand.  As she waited for them to quiet she glanced about, seeking simple confirmation that her friends were still close: Watts and Zone stood in front of her, a bit off to the right, watching the crowd. Quistis stood at her back, tall and solemn in her uniform, hands ready at her sides; she gave Rinoa a nod and a very small smile. At her side, Angelo offered a much bigger and more reassuring smile.

Rinoa clenched her hands into fists, and began speaking.  "This isn't a big day for us," she began, and she watched as one by one gazes flicked upwards to her in surprise. "To make this a big day, a monumental event, is to give Galbadia exactly what they want. So it isn't a big day. It isn't a turning point. This is a _sad_ day for us."

Her hands unfurled.  "But it's one sad day out of a thousand sad days, here in Timber.  It's one awful day when things we love are taken from us – one day in a week, a month, in _years_ that Galbadia has tried to take everything we have."  She looked out at the people who had gathered to hear her: fighters, all, even those who would never carry a weapon, because they were here to share it with her.  "This isn't the turning point," Rinoa said, "because we have already been turned around. _We are already fighting._   This is simply one more sad reason among a thousand sad reasons we have to keep going."

She took a step forward, out to the edge of her salvaged stage, and she was sure her eyes were shining as she looked out at the crowd – _her_ crowd, a crowd of people who needed her here.  "If they think," she said, drawing in one deep breath in preparation – and that's when the crumbled wall next to her exploded, pieces propelled into mid-air by the force of the thick jet of water suddenly gushing upwards.

For one long, silent, blank moment all Rinoa could do was stare at it, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open in utter confusion; it was as if her brain couldn't even put the pieces together.  _What the...?_

And then the shockwave slammed into her, one bright shining loud loud _loud_ pulse of energy-force sweeping over her, onto her, _through_ her.  She fell to her knees, onto the slab of stone beneath her, pain instantly jarring up her nerves as she hit off-kilter, one wrist awkwardly catching her weight in a way she knew instantly was bad news; a familiar bark, and Angelo was already there, nudging at her face. Sounds caught up to her then, instantly, an eerie fast-forward of noises too thick and jumbled to decipher: rushing water, explosives, something sparking darkly; hissing, clanking.  And screaming. Rinoa fumbled her way to her knees using Angelo as a graceless prop; she saw Zone and Watts trying to rush the crowd - stumbling, panicking, frozen in place - to safety, as if in slow motion.

She turned.  Quistis was already there and she wasn't surprised at all to see her, crouching as she spat Curaga over the Rinoa-and-Angelo tangle.  And behind Quistis rose a mechanical monstrosity: all dark metal and darker glass, red lights gleaming like eerie eyes, licks of gleaming blue lighting circuits of veinwork along its – appendages, and all Rinoa could think of was a giant scorpion, as if they'd plated one with iron and steel and hot electric pulses; dripping, as if it had just climbed out of the sewer, _which of course it did; they must have planted it when they hit the library–_

But then it lurched, reaching out one long appendage-leg-claw, and Rinoa shrieked: _"Quistis!"_   The machine batted Quistis aside; she tumbled off the stone, managing to fall into somewhat of a roll, climbing unsteadily to her feet almost instantly, whip unfurled automatically in her hand even as her eyes attempted to focus - _"Angelo,"_ Rinoa ordered, and the dog leapt towards Quistis at the command; Angelo could help, would give Quistis a few valuable seconds of recovery and support. Rinoa turned and stood, unsteadily, the ache of her bruised knees and jolted wrist fading in the face of her terror-anger at this thing, this metal contraption Galbadia had hidden in the sewers to wait for her; the thought chilled her, even as she braced herself against it, slowly raising the arm that bore her weapon – no, she wasn't stupid, despite Squall's apparently low opinion of her self-preservation skills she _did not_ wander around Timber unarmed. She checked her balance, gathering her strength, aiming her blaster at the thing, waiting for it to make a move, waiting for Quistis, waiting for the citizens of Timber to clear out, waiting–

—and she _felt_ it trickling-prickling in the back of her head: her magic, slowly starting to flow, like water filling up a vessel.  _No,_ Rinoa thought, a wild spike of panic paralyzing her momentarily; _no, no, please, no, just stay where you are–_

—the creature hissed, and some sort of gas suddenly hit her like a physical blow: toxic, black and oily, and sticky on her limbs. Rinoa turned her head, coughing, hacking this slimy-choking feeling up through her throat; her eyes stung, and she wept into it, the trails of water burning down her face as they bubbled and steamed in the acid. She took one shallow breath, already wheezing, and Quistis's Esuna crashed into her face - for a second she couldn't breathe because of _that,_ cool-fire magic scrubbing her lungs empty, stripping her veins clean, and she wondered, _usually Quistis is more precise_ ; but of course, it would have hit her too, this machine didn't seem at all stupid. The second Esuna split the air, the gas clearing from Rinoa’s eyes, and she saw the giant creature swat Angelo from her defensive perch–

— _no!_

Angelo rolled into the crowd, and Rinoa screamed, even as her dog stumbled to her feet again; a girl, little more then twelve, threw her arms around Angelo's neck. Rinoa saw, as if through a haze, Watts yelling something she couldn't make out, wading through the crowd towards Angelo and the young girl; Quistis was at Rinoa's side, also yelling something, but she couldn't hear Quistis for some reason – _why is she yelling at me?_ \- the words slowed by the sudden nimbus of her magic into long drawn-out groaning sounds, incantations of nothing – _she looks worried_ – Angelo, turning her head to look back at her mistress carefully, her bark lost in the hissing haze – Rinoa's world had shrunk to the massive pinpoint of the machine before her, and all she could hear were its steam-hisses, its vein-crackles, its gas-thumping, processed lifeblood controlling its movements: how miniscule, how small, how easy to crush...  It wasn't until the wings sprouted from her back - _beautiful release, exquisite pain, ivory-white glory unfurling to the reaches of the sky -_  that some small part of her realized what was happening–

— _no,_ Rinoa-inside-Rinoa thought, screamed, cried;

while another part of her braced its feet and said, _no, **yes** : we can do this– _

The trance descended upon her like rain, the rush of magic soaking through her entirely to her bones, familiar cold chill stiffening her arms: _but it wasn't the same._ Something in it had loosened, overflowed, broken free, and in every motion there was a hint of fire, hot like friction, temptingly and damningly close enough to grab and too close to push away and Rinoa _didn't want it, didn't want this,_ because it wasn't like before; she didn't know this, couldn't do this. Her brain felt soaked in liquid, short-circuiting and slow, churning through thick black water.

The scorpion-machine before her was alight in her magic-sight, electric traces carrying Junctioned magic through its metal-joints, its brace-bones highlighted to the Sorceress as strong points, weak points, places to bend and break and pinpoint.  It lashed out at her, and she dodged it like blinking, her wings beating with a sound like unholy laughter; something flickered, and an electric pulse flashed through her, one bright moment until it fizzled out, unable to carry a charge in her magic-soaked body.

Sorceress cast, fire leaping from her fingertips: Fira, Firaga, Firaga again, lashing through the metallic construct before her, searing its gears and heating its fluids; it cried, but a defiant cry, and it skittered away to the side, leaving fire and ash in its wake, across the ruins of stone.  But the fire did not die there; the power in it grew, blossomed, flame-petaled flowers blooming across the stone–

— _no,_ that small part of Rinoa cried out, terrified; _no, Timber, it's burning, you're doing more damage than good;_

and a voice in her head sounding like Quistis, or Squall, was telling her sternly: _Thundaga against mechanical enemies, Rinoa, come on–_

—she tried to wrench control away, tried to siphon off some of the power the way she could, sometimes, but there was just _too much here,_ the magic drowning even that small bit of control she had once had, a teeming flood of power swirling about her consciousness so fast she couldn't get a grip on it, something come dangerously loose. Rinoa struggled, grasped for a moment, and there was a second of stability, of stone-cold support, of control, the power aligned properly through the conduit of her body, spells automatically Drawing from the great reservoir and slotting into her Junctions - and then the line snapped, and her own Junctions began to overflow; she clutched at it even as the cyclone of magic pulled her under again, and her fingers spat ice this time, Blizzaga like a thunder-clap, coalescing round one great leg and snapping as it splintered-broke.

The scorpion-machine reared up on its hind legs, squeal-groaning, and her sight flickered strangely with it: twelve parts technicolor magic-fueled senses and one part muted, terrified human, watching as the front legs slammed into the ground _– the ground rumbled, buckled, leapt, and she wanted to dig her fingers into it and claim it_ – and then something blossomed from its back: dull grey, strangely solid in the whirling-flood of Sorceress' magic-sight, unfurling like a cloak from a point above the machine and trickling downward, completely matte, completely lifeless–

The Sorceress reared up and screamed in challenge, wings beating a steady dance, and Rinoa-inside-Rinoa tried desperately, frantically, hopelessly to regain control as the Reflect spell struck the ground, solid and true and terrifying.  But it was too late; she cast, her fingers stretching out of their own accord, and ice tore into her own body: painfully and acutely familiar, magic pouring back into magic, the feedback loop ringing loud with agony as Rinoa fought – _Squall,_ she thought once, desperately, _Squall, **please**_  – but nothing changed, nothing surfaced, and Sorceress cast again: fire splashed off the shield, backlash pouring into the ground and the air and Timber: tearing into her arms, splashing her eyes with white-hot pain. Her wings faltered, the pain of  _her own magic_ utterly unbearable on her skin.  Fire and Ice hadn't worked, and Rinoa felt it building in her, like chanting, like runes and rhythm, accelerating; she fought desperately against this current, but she was drowning, _drowned,_  an unintelligible speck in the hundreds of centuries of women that had built this undeniable force. 

The Sorceress let loose with Holy:  _white screams, so pure; the shimmer of Reflect, and an unhuman cry from her own throat, pearl-white tearing her own wings apart..._

And then suddenly Rinoa felt a hand on her ankle - _her_ ankle, twisted and charred – and Quistis was there: three Quistises, flickering in and out of focus, identical mouths spitting out  _Stop-Silence-Stop!_ The first spell _sank_ in: blissful-sweet arrest, her traitorous limbs finally frozen in place, as a crouched Quistis guided her faltering-winged form back onto the stone beneath her. Between Quistis' steadying touch and the force of the Stop spell there was a long silent pause, like the soft peal of a bell – _rapturous silence, no overflow; nothing but peace._ The sudden lack of magic was like a breath of air, pure and bittersweet, and it would have scared her - should have scared her – except that she'd spent all her fear already, and her nerves were empty.

Quistis held her there, one hand on her shoulder, a sudden and strange stability – but there was a loud air-rending squeal; Quistis turned her head, too slow to do anything more than throw up one arm in sudden defense against the oncoming barrage of lightning.  Rinoa couldn't move, couldn't even twitch, her body frozen sullen and painful in its own magical defiance and the cage Stop had driven into her – and she watched Quistis take the brunt of the electric shock, bright thick tendrils of lightning splaying over her arm, outlining her nerves in stark contrast even through her uniform. She _felt_ Quistis' fingers tighten into her shoulder, involuntarily, as her friend's body _spasmed_ with the shock of it, and Rinoa could feel, could think, because she wanted to weep–

The crash of the Sorceress finally leaving her body suddenly overtook her, taking the Stop spell with it, one final and wicked annulment – all the magic crumbling away from her form and falling in visible pieces to the ground like shards of ice-glass.  Rinoa crumpled to the stone with it, the last of her strength sapped from her, too weary to do anything more than watch as one long leg-claw came out and struck Quistis in the upper arm, the thud not magical at all but real, fleshy, mortal, terrifying–

\--and she'd somehow closed her eyes, because when she opened them, Quistis' head snapped up, and it suddenly was more-than-Quistis in her place. 

Her eyes were glowing, blue-white and vicious; her glasses missing, knocked aside by the blow.  There was a ragged cut on her cheekbone, blood smeared down her face, and her sleeve was dark and damp. Quistis crouched there, between Rinoa and the machine: her legs were coiled with taut energy, her fingers flexed and ready; her lips peeled back, teeth in a strange feral grin.

It was simultaneously similar-and-not, because this was no more Quistis than Angel Wing was Rinoa – but this was no _Sorceress_ , either, no creature of ethereal magic and delicate wings.

In the one second of silence, Rinoa heard a low snarl: no, _felt it,_ through the soles of her shoes, up the base of her spine, a dark defensive growl.

Quistis stood up.  Her eyes flashed – literally flashed, golden lightning streaking from them to the sky – and she threw her head back, arms splaying wide; bolts of lightning bounced from her head to her fingertips, through her legs, off the ground, all coalescing into the machine before them, metal claws suddenly become lightning rods. The warm light around Quistis was golden, like sunlight on her hair, and Rinoa _felt_ it, through the faint raw shadow of her magic: she was beyond terror, and the echo of Quistis' spell inside her skull rang fearlessly, awe and admiration bubbling up through those surfaces of her mind as her magic recognized kindred.

The scorpion-machine stumbled backwards, and Quistis pivoted. Her glowing gaze, golden-bright, landed on Rinoa, and she threw her hand up, palm outwards in an obviously forbidding message: _stay right the hell where you are._

Quistis' gaze snapped back to the machine, her palm still held out towards Rinoa. Her first spell had short-circuited something internal, because sparks were flying from the side of the contraption. Her face, no longer feral, carried a dangerous concentrated intensity Rinoa actually found _more_ terrifying. Quistis threw her hand up into the air, and Rinoa felt a warm breeze against her cool skin: the slow-knotting healing of Regen, the soft buffer of Shell.  Quistis gestured, broadly, _forcefully,_ eyes closing in sudden fierce concentration: and Rinoa watched as translucent violet walls cropped up  _around the machine,_ a strange box between it and the rest of Timber, the only opening from the cell facing Quistis herself.

 _She's protecting Timber,_ Rinoa realized, as Mighty Guard settled in, rose-white sections sparking from the wall as the mechanical scorpion shifted its bearings, trying to hide its injured side from view. Oil dripped to the ground, hissing where it landed. _I didn't know that was –_ but Quistis' magic was so unfamiliar to her, so unlike hers. _Why can't I...?_ The question cast forth on silent surfaces, all answers locked away from her now.

A loud hiss echoed oddly off of the transparent walls as pieces began to fall from the machine; Rinoa's heart leapt in eager joy – and then sunk in terror, because it was just a shield, a false construct exoskeleton falling away to reveal the heart of the thing; and the heart of the thing was somehow a cannon: black, night-black, soul-black, lines of red tracing circuitry up its spine as it shifted around like a living, breathing thing, high-pitched whine slowly increasing in intensity as a glow at its tip became brighter and brighter, eye-piercingly bright.

Quistis' arm jerked out, unnaturally straight, her fingers wrapping around the air as if she were clutching the thing itself, digging her fingernails into it–

\--the air around the cannon began to warp, strangely, weaving inwards on itself; the contraption struggled, something shorting out into a shower of pale sparks which fizzed harmlessly against Mighty Guard's wall. Quistis' other arm shot out, palms facing each other, fingers digging into the air between her hands; they looked like claws, so fiercely tense Rinoa thought she was truly squeezing the life from the thing.  Deep blue-violet light grew, lines twining over the form of the machine; Quistis braced herself, her eyes glowing violet and red, her face stark with tense effort; Rinoa thought she was growling again, because she felt something rumbling deep within her spine, a fierce echo of Quistis' controlled battle fury.  The air flashed, and there was a strange mechanical cry, the shrieking of metal-on-metal–

\--and then there was a pop, and the faint _pinging_ of a few screws and pieces falling lightly to the ground where the black hole had been.

Rinoa's eyes were wide.  Quistis' arms fell to her sides, and she turned back to look at Rinoa; her expression was unreadable: the skin stretched tight across her bones, her eyes still glowing with dark-light, Blue Magic writ in every line of her face. Quistis gave her a nod, and Rinoa realized she was unable to read her friend's face through this magic, behind the gleam of her eyes – and yet Something inside Rinoa recognized it, answered it, even locked down and distant as her magic was: because she _knew_ what it was like to have a power living inside.  She remembered that low growl and shivered. 

 _If Quistis hadn't been here, I would be dead right now._

And then in a much smaller voice: _Squall was right._

It took Rinoa-in-Rinoa a few shaking minutes to begin the climb back into her dangerous, magic-wracked, uncontrollable body, still, and the first mental touch almost undid her with terror– but the terror was _hers_ , real and human and bleeding. Not _Sorceress._ Quistis crossed her arms before her face, fingers extended, and bowed; she breathed, and the wind became soothing, healing, warm numb peace licking up from the stone into Rinoa's aches.  She felt the Sorceress stir, and clutched her hands in panic, but the Silence held: the magic simply _rolled over,_ basking in the cool-warm touch of White Wind, soaking it up like a plant, balm to a wound.

 _Strange,_ Rinoa thought - shakily, and without much emphasis, afraid of what the thought might conjure.

Quistis' eyes focused on Rinoa, and suddenly, she _felt_ the Limit Break dissipate: it was like she could _see_ Quistis' Blue Magic soaking into the ground, streaming back into the wild parts of the earth. It shone in her eyes, clear sky-blue. Then Quistis was standing there again, looking at her with that complex combination of concerned-relief she'd had occasion to perfect as an Instructor, a look she'd used on Rinoa plenty of times – and Rinoa felt it pulsing from her, like an undercurrent.

Quistis took a step towards her and held out her arm again - palm-up, this time: an invitation.

Rinoa reached out and clasped Quistis' hand. The grasp was strong, and sure, and it wasn't Squall but at that moment it was as close as Rinoa knew she'd get to that feeling of security and she _clutched_ at it, so close to tears she could taste them in the back of her throat. Quistis pulled her upright; her fingers were shaking, and Quistis squeezed her hand once for reassurance. It made Rinoa laugh, except that the laugh came out as a sob, and Quistis squeezed her hand again and gave her a brisk confident nod as she let go.

The magic whispered in her head, low and quiet, like wind suddenly whispering through branches – and it was calm, calmer than ever. 

Rinoa thought for a moment of worrying... but she was too grateful for the silence to pay it much attention.


	4. Chapter 4

Esthar looked the same as it had the last time he'd seen it, Squall thought: shiny and overwhelming and strange. The only real difference was in the number of guards — and civilians, he noted with a slight frown — carrying weapons; the report had said the Lunar Cry had hit Esthar badly, but the number of young mothers and elderly gentlemen carrying guns drove that fact home in a way the printout hadn't. He shifted his grip on his hastily-packed duffel bag — the two men who'd met him with the cardboard sign saying _Squall_ in something that looked suspiciously like a glitter pen had tried to carry his luggage, but Squall wasn't about to give that up — and looked around, a little closer. A lot of the shops were empty, either abandoned or closed up, sleek storefronts still clean and shining like everything else in Esthar, only empty. Esthar had always seemed like that to Squall, though, gleaming lines and technological glitter hiding absolutely nothing, a vacuous lack of substance. Then again, it wasn't fair to tarnish all of Esthar because he didn't like Laguna Loire.

And Squall had to recognize the irony in that: that he'd jumped at the chance to visit — _professionally_ visit — a man whose very existence irritated the hell out of him, because he couldn't stand for another minute to be around his own girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend? It clawed at him, a little, that strange sloshing feeling threatening to overcome him again. Squall frowned. He wasn't going to spend all of his time thinking about her — about _them;_ the point of a break was to take a break, right? Not for the first time that day, Squall systematically cursed out the string of responsibilities that had convinced him to come here rather than take a nice simple vacation somewhere in the mountains. Alone.

His two guides gestured him into something that looked like a cab from outer space; he recognized the Presidential seal on the side. As he sat down and settled in, he debated the wisdom of labeling which cars were carrying the important people around, like a gigantic flashing target for terrorists or enemies. Written in glitter pen, perhaps. The space cab started moving; the ride was blissfully smooth, and Squall set a grumpy look on his face and glared out the window. It wasn't too hard to manufacture annoyance. The man who had sat with him in the back of the spacemobile didn't even try to make conversation.

The ride to the Presidential Palace was short. Squall had tried to keep track of the turns and twists, but the glittering facade of Esthar's streets made directionality confusing, and he settled for keeping a mental account of the number of civilians he spotted sporting arms. The proportion was roughly over half. It said a good deal about Esthar in general that half of the population could walk around carrying guns, swords, and in one very odd case, a flail — and yet the mood in the city seemed calm and casual, a sort of grim cheerfulness. He thought about the tense situation in Timber, full of rebels and terrorists and angry sentiment boiling beneath the surface; he thought about half of Timber's citizenry carrying guns, and a chill crept across him. Thank god Rinoa was— his brain choked off the thought, because thinking about Rinoa hurt, an ache in his chest as if he were actually missing a piece of his heart.

The car stopped. Squall climbed out, again ignoring the subtle gestures of assistance the guards had offered, and straightened to look at the Presidential Palace. One of the guides drove the space cab off somewhere; the other gestured for Squall to follow into the building. The cold air hit him in the face; he hadn't even noticed the heat of the day, but inside the Palace was cool, artificial and dry. Squall followed his guide through a series of hallways, each one as markedly bland as the next.

They stopped in front of a door whose tag read: _President Laguna Loire._ Squall's escort knocked, and Squall gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he'd chosen to come here.

The door swung open, and Loire was already grinning as he reached for Squall's hand, turning it into an awkward combination of handshake and hug as he clapped Squall on the shoulder, completely oblivious to the lack of response on Squall's part. "Hey, Squall! It's good to see you. We were just getting things together for the meeting this afternoon, but your room's ready — here, I'll take you, it's alright." A vague wave of the hand not clasping Squall's, and the guide nodded and left. "We set you up in a suite, it's a great room. Plenty of space." His eyes dropped to Squall's duffel bag. "Hey, is that all you brought? You SeeDs must be pretty efficient packers."

Squall belatedly realized Laguna was wearing a suit, and an expensive one, carefully fitted to his frame in a way that flattered his build; he'd never seen the President in any kind of suit before, and he wondered, rather too late, whether fashion in Esthar was— well, he'd just wear his uniform, and Esthar could pretty much deal. He also belatedly realized he hadn't yet said a word.

"Thank you for having me in," he said, and it came out stiff, like a machine. He wondered whether it was obvious, the exhaustion he felt written on his face. He wished for a bit of Rinoa's grace, the way she could smile at anyone and make it heartfelt, the way her easy cheer relaxed every room - his heart clenched at it.

"Well," Laguna said, and it was clear that he was sizing up Squall somewhat; Squall felt the other man's regard like a weight, the scrutiny surprising. "I'm really just excited that you're here to talk about the Garden. You! The Commander himself!" He stopped, and looked at Squall: clear blue-green eyes focused on him with an unasked question. Squall was confused; Laguna looked expectant, as if he were waiting for Squall to say something. About the Garden? Squall hated this part of politics, all the unspoken play, the words between the lines. He was terrible at it; he had neither the time nor the patience to decipher insinuations, and Laguna was insinuating _something._ He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What the heck was he supposed to do now?

"Nothing is decided yet," Squall said finally, thinking it must have been something to do with the Garden. "But Esthar's proposal is worth investigating, and the timing for a visit was ideal." He clamped his mouth shut on those last few words; where had _that_ come from? Hopefully Laguna would think he meant politically, or something, and not ...emotionally.

Laguna's intense gaze lasted another second or so before it broke off into his goofy grin. "Come on," he said, grabbing a cardkey off of his desk. "Let's go get you settled in so that you can relax a bit before this afternoon. There'll be a meeting with some of the chairmen of the board this afternoon, a good one - they'll have a presentation on their ideas, and probably a cocktail hour afterward."

Squall followed Laguna out into the hall, feeling strangely awkward and stiff with it; this had been a terrible idea. He wasn't in the mood for meetings or presentations or cocktail hours, he wasn't in the mood for long leading glances and double conversations; he just wanted to be left _alone,_ alone with his thoughts, maybe to sleep for a week or two straight. He couldn't even make conversation — which didn't seem to be a deterrent; Laguna was still chattering on about cocktails, as if he didn't actually need responses anyway. Squall's brain felt overstuffed and dry.

"And tomorrow we've got even more meetings for you," Laguna said as they ascended a spiral staircase; Squall realized belatedly that he hadn't been paying attention at _all._ Some Commander he'd make, unable to find his way out of the labyrinth of the Presidential Palace. Maybe he could have Laguna assign him a permanent guide. Maybe the guide could then make conversation with the President and leave Squall alone. "And the next day I think we'll do a tour, show you the actual sites, kind of get you thinking the way we're thinking. And next week I've set up some stuff with Odine's lab and some of the other labs we have, because I think that's gonna be really important."

Next week. Squall could barely even think about the next day — more meetings, more time alone with his thoughts and this man in tandem, one of the worst combinations he'd ever successfully chosen for himself. "Important?"

"Well, yeah. To build a Garden, you know." Laguna winked at him, and Squall wondered whether this was another hidden subliminal message or if Laguna was just being an idiot. "With you actually here, I want to make sure we cover everything."

Nothing has been _decided,_ Squall wanted to say _again,_ because the message just wasn't getting through, apparently. Was he being too obvious? He made some kind of noise, a half-grunt in the back of his throat, hoping it would sound encouraging; it came out sounding grumpy and constipated.

"Here you go." Laguna swiped the keycard through the slot on the door and presented it to Squall with a flourish. Squall opened the door and stepped inside. The room was decorated almost to the point of garishness: an extremely large four-poster bed in the middle — swathed with red silk and sporting enough pillows to sleep a small city — fought with an assaultingly-bright blue couch across the room. He blinked. Laguna barreled on in, eagerly, gesturing. "This is the best room in the house, you know. Designed by Foster Perrera himself, he's a pretty famous decorator around here; we had him in last year when we refurbished the place. The closet opens up, here—" He swung open a set of double doors leading into a space the size of Squall's dorm, complete with hangers and a matching set of dressers _inside._ "Over here is your wet bar, completely on the house, heh, and there's access for a computer over there."

Squall dropped his duffel onto the silk bedspread and turned. Laguna was standing there, his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, but there was an air of expectation around him: in the smile on his face, eagerly hopeful, and the way he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot — and Squall realized he remembered that, recognized it as one of Laguna's nervous tics, an unconscious shuffle which inevitably led to those embarrassing leg cramps— he looked away, sharply, down at his duffel. He'd forgotten that, the strange uncomfortable awareness of their excursions to the past. Did Laguna think they would be great friends, now, just since Squall had spent a little time in his head? Was that what this was about?

Laguna cleared his throat, and the tension in the room ramped up suddenly, an awkward feeling Squall could almost taste in the back of his throat, thick and bitter. "I'll just let you settle in," he said graciously, and Squall wondered how he knew Laguna was disappointed to not be invited in, greeted, maybe offered a drink from his own wet bar and a chat about Garden gossip. Was the other man just so simple, so easy to read, or was it a carryover from Ellone's dreaming? Did it matter?

"I'll be back in about an hour," Laguna said, and his grin was only a little dampened.

  


_________________________________

  


" _Laguna_. Cut it out." Kiros's voice was laughing at him and Laguna did not feel all that threatened, though a guilty twinge wormed through his belly — Kiros's patience did have an end after all — but as long as Kiros was finding Laguna's panic _funny_ , Laguna did not feel all that bad about it. He jerked at the buttons of his suit and wondered— no, Squall would notice if he changed it, that would probably be painfully _obvious_ and he—

Kiros's hand landed on his, warm weight over Laguna's fingers on his suit buttons, settling and stilling them. " _Relax_ ," Kiros said, long and low and rolling down Laguna's spine.

Laguna breathed out. He stopped; stopped pacing his suite, stopped fidgeting with his clothes, stopped— cripes, stopped _hyperventilating_. Kiros' fingers gave his a squeeze, and Laguna nodded abstracted thanks: Kiros grounding him like always. The nearest place to collapse was one of the nicer armchairs, and Laguna took the opportunity immediately. The restless anxiety seemed to leak out of him as he sat, leaving behind a tepid residue that made Laguna's mouth twist as Kiros perched on the chair's arm, cocking a hip over it. Laguna sighed (apparently with enough drama to draw a small snort from Kiros) and leaned his head against Kiros's conveniently-placed thigh; Kiros' fingers laced comfortably through Laguna's hair (the snort was forgiven).

He drifted, for a few moments, in a kind of limbo of neutral comfort, Kiros's presence and touch canceling out the unpleasant twisting of his stomach — if only just. Laguna didn't know what he'd expected — this was _Squall_ after all, prickly and distant and preoccupied. And weirdly intense. He hadn't forgotten that, but he'd forgotten how _much_ ; it made Laguna wonder what Squall looked like when he really smiled. Cripes, that must be— something. _Not that I have much of a chance of seeing that anytime soon_ , and his belly went hollow. He wished he had any idea what Squall was thinking.

"I wish I had any idea what he's thinking," Laguna said aloud. "I wish you'd been there. Ugh, but you were busy saving my ass with getting the meeting ready. Can you watch him when we go? But don't stare."

"I never stare," Kiros murmured; Laguna tapped his head against Kiros's thigh in rebuke for the smile layered over every syllable.

"I'm not babbling," he said in preemptive defense.

"No comment." Kiros shifted, sifted his fingers out of Laguna's hair, so he could place that palm on his shoulder. Kiros leaned over to catch Laguna's eye. "But you're looking almost as grouchy as _he_ gets."

Laguna realized his face had tensed into a frown only because he had to shift it aside to answer Kiros; it made him want to frown _more_ , the unhelpful queasy tightness returning. This excitement vacillated dizzily between pleasant nerves and— _un_ pleasant nerves. He didn't like it.

"Sorry," Laguna— _grouched_ , okay, fine. "I just—"

"Don't know how to feel about all this?" Kiros offered.

Laguna tilted his head back and up, to look at him. "Yeah." Kiros's face had turned fond-serious, and Laguna's lip quirked in a small, grateful smile before smoothing again. "I don't know. It's like— I mean. I want this. Right?" His voice turned a little _too_ plaintive there at the end.

Kiros hummed something completely and unhelpfully neutral — and raised his eyebrow, the bastard, reflecting the query back at him. Laguna felt the scowl snapping onto his face, though he couldn't possibly look as threatening as Squall managed. He should know better by now, he really should. Kiros knew him entirely too well to let him get away with that little shouldn't-have-been-a-question, and Laguna just — he didn't want to think about it. "Anyway. I wish he'd give me _something_ to work with," he continued instead, distracting Kiros with some more honesty. "He'd tell me to fuck off if he really wanted me to. And he hasn't. So now what?"

"Now you wait. And _breathe_."

"Aren't you supposed to be giving comforting advice? Offering insights?"

Kiros grinned. "I haven't even _seen_ him yet."

"I demand immediate answers," Laguna grumbled, and threw his forearm over his eyes. Hyne, he was _already_ tired and it was barely afternoon. There was still the introductory meeting to get to, and the schmoozefest tonight. "Well, you're going to see him in a minute. It's time for the first meeting." The thought of getting up sounded deeply unappetizing.

Kiros slid off the chair's arm and Laguna stubbornly refused to envy the ease of the motion. Then Kiros was tapping him on the shoulder and Laguna lowered his arm to find Kiros offering him a hand up. He sighed, and took it, a warm thankful flush for Kiros's steadiness bolstering his flagging — everything. He liked Squall. He really did. He wished the guy was easier to read. Dammit. And then he was on his feet, absently (and needlessly) dusting at his suit — which Kiros had successfully distracted him from changing. Laguna felt depressingly predictable.

"Ready?" Kiros asked, his tone that unique Kiros-trick balance that would let Laguna decide whether to take it seriously or not.

Laguna grinned. "Who are you even _talking_ to? Let's just go!"

Kiros' lips quirked.

  


_________________________________

  


Squall's belongings were already distributed about the room — his two spare uniforms hung in the cavernous closet beside the few other clothes he'd bought, and his boots had been toed into a neat line underneath; he'd stuck his head in the bathroom to deposit his razor and retreated after a long blank stare at the glistening array of amenities. He'd found himself standing in the middle of the room, the suite feeling both hollowly large, beneath the pathetically thin layer of his possessions, and strangely close, pressing against his skin with an imprint of irritating _eagerness_ : the loud blue couch and the ridiculous bed, the intimidatingly over-abundant bathroom, the bright, clashing rugs and paintings — the thickly stocked wet bar squatting in the corner like an overenthused puppy. It was as if Loire had left frenetic energy behind like a scent, hovering over the entire room. This could, Squall began to feel, be a very long visit.

His shoulders twitched away the oppressive welcome of the room; he turned on his heel, precise by habit, and sat down before the console, keying it to life. He'd already sent Zell a list of notes and instructions that he should have given before he'd even left Garden, and opened a blank email for Cid, when the knocking interrupted him, a too-quick series of _rap-rap-rap, rap-rap_. Squall's fingers froze over the keyboard, stretching out tense and relaxing again with Squall's long breath. He turned off the console.

When Squall opened the door he half-expected to see Laguna's hand raised, about to knock again, but instead he was trading looks with — Kiros. Squall blinked, and Kiros's gaze flicked over to him.

Kiros's regard was steady and somehow — deep, layered, like currents ran under the surface and Squall was deliberately allowed to see that fact, if not what the currents contained: an honesty entirely different from the way Laguna's eyes and gestures spilled truths all over the place. Laguna, Squall abruptly realized, was watching the silent exchange with rapt attention. Squall cut him a puzzled frown, _what_ — _?_ and the moment slipped away from him; Kiros exchanged a quick glance with Laguna and Squall caught Kiros's mouth quirking, just a little, before Kiros turned back to him and offered a hand, unpressingly. "Squall," he greeted, cutting across the potential for awkwardness over the long pause with the easy, warm, formal tone of his voice.

"Kiros," Squall returned, clasping his hand; Kiros forced no further contact on him and dropped his hand after two firm shakes. And of all things it made Squall feel vaguely _ashamed_ , like he'd been being impolite somehow since he'd gotten here; he didn't understand it but it sat strangely in the air anyway, almost tangible, and he found himself adding, "Good to see you again."

Kiros smiled, but Squall was distracted by a twitch from Laguna, a flicker of something tight over his face, and then Laguna had inserted himself between them, already talking. "Great! Well, it's time to get this started, we have an introductory meeting to go to — you'll meet the heads of all the interested parties, lots of names and titles — don't worry, we made a cheat sheet for you, and notes, um—" Laguna fumbled an array of papers in his hand, flicking through for the right set. Then Kiros cleared his throat, and handed Squall a neatly stapled stack of papers; Laguna shot Kiros a grateful look and Squall resisted a deep urge to roll his eyes and Loire was already babbling again: "Awesome. There they are. Come on—" he waved them along, and handed his papers, disordered by his search, to Kiros, who fell in behind Squall, already sorting them. Squall found himself beside Laguna at a brisk march down the hallways.

"Well. Here's how it is. The investors — they're coming later, they have to detach themselves from all their money things first — want a precise budget estimate first before they'll confirm the funds. And the planning people -- that's all of us, everyone you'll meet in a sec — want figures to work with before they decide on project scope and what programs they want to run and — well, you know how it is." Laguna waved his hand, and Squall had to dodge backward for a second; Kiros, momentarily even with him, glanced up from his sorting with a knowing smile that seemed to slide right over Squall's irritation. Laguna looked around for Squall, and actually turned to walk backwards, even though Squall could see they were entering more populated terrain — but everyone here seemed used to this, dodging around their oblivious President, and Laguna was _still talking_. "This is just supposed to be introductions and some quick presentations but it's going to end up all about money. Sorry." Laguna's mouth twisted in brief apology, and _why can't he just steer the meeting in a different direction, if he doesn't want that?_ But then Laguna pivoted on his heel, facing forward again and stopping; Squall perforce stopped with him, a few steps short of a conference-room style double door. "Well. Here we are. Ready or not."

And Laguna glanced over to him, his smile tinged all over with — what? hesitance? — Squall jerked a nod, just so they could get this over with. Whatever Laguna had been expecting — hoping for? — that didn't seem to be it, the smile flickering on his face — Squall distracted for a moment by the memory of Rinoa's smile wobbling — and then Laguna was squaring his shoulders, marching forward, and throwing open the double doors.

Squall thought he heard a tiny snort from Kiros at the dramatic gesture.

The introductions dragged on forever, seeming even slower after Laguna's rapid-fire delivery as they'd marched down here. Squall tried to fix the faces and names in his memory, check them against the notes in front of him; he'd been trained for memorization, for dealing with different titles and power structures, but this solid wall of the kind of all-grey variety and lengthiness of titles and positions that only a full-fledged bureaucracy could provide strained the limits of even his training. He found himself seated next to Loire in a place of honour as the introductions gave way to presentations of possible plans and projects, punctuated by Laguna's voice calling up a new speaker or arguing over something in the current one's proposal, and Squall felt his eyes glazing over.

"So what you're saying is that this would strain our sector to benefit—"

"What we're _saying_ ," Laguna interrupted the director — was that one of the directors or one of the managers or one of the chief-something-officers? — whoever he was, Laguna interrupted him with enough good-naturedness to have it come off as smoothly, pinning a friendly smile on the man and then the rest of the table in one sweep before continuing — "is that this is an _investment_ that will bring us all cross-sector benefits in the long run." Squall could almost imagine Laguna lovingly highlighting the dazzlingly polysyllabic keywords in glitter pen throughout his presentation notes: investment, cross-sector, sustainability. Laguna gave his point a moment to sink in before turning to Squall and prompting, with a full, wide — hopeful? — smile, "Aren't we?"

The wattage on that smile — visible, he realized suddenly and for no reason, only to Squall — was damn near blinding. He bit back irritation at that "we"; how had Laguna managed to turn this into some kind of "the Commander and I are totally buddies" proposal? The encouraging grin was reminding him of how Rinoa would try to draw him out with smiles and gentle prompting during their public co-appearances: _solidarity, Squall!_ And he blinked, at an odd double-layered moment, remembering the echo of those smiles across Rinoa's Bond — and the way he'd felt Laguna's mouth stretch comfortably into those goofy grins and how the smiles would relax his whole body — his? not his. Dammit. He realized that he'd been staring at Laguna's mouth for several silent seconds and hadn't dropped the conversational ball so much as hurled it off a cliff. Fucking meetings; couldn't they just give him reports to read and manage these negotiations through writing, like normal people?

Hell, what was Laguna asking him to agree to? _Don't answer that. It wasn't a general question_. Investment, right.

He jerked a nod; this seemed insufficient to cover the pause, especially as Laguna's mouth twitched, smile fading, and Squall was somehow compelled to tack on a "Yes" to the gesture. Laguna beamed, quick and quiet; Squall felt his irritation begin to manifest as a bona fide headache and scowled. But Laguna was already turning away, the inviting smile fading into something more personable and businesslike for the table's benefit, and Squall had to swallow a cough as he belatedly realized that _both_ expressions had been genuine. He chased the cough down with some water and shoved aside whatever implications that discovery had for the odd private edge of hopeful inquiry in Laguna's grins, because there was a much more important corollary: _Laguna's actually_ enjoying _this. He likes meetings._ _God, he really_ is _an idiot_.

Squall put his face in his hands.

  


_________________________________

  


Laguna flirted harmlessly with his undersecretary and took her for a round on the floor, followed by the chief engineer and then _her_ secretary; Hyne but he _loved_ nerdily intelligent women. He slid off the dance floor, flushed and smiling, and considered taking Kiros for a spin, sweeping the room for the unmistakably fetching sight of Kiros in a suit when he glimpsed Squall glued to the wall instead. The crowd closed in again, and Laguna frowned, craning his head and shuffling to the side to see — was Squall just catching his breath? He managed a clear line of sight and — no, Squall had definitely not moved in a while: his face was clear and pale, no flush of recent animated conversation or movement. Or alcohol. This called for alcohol.

He flagged down a waiter, reached for the champagne flutes arranged geometrically on his tray, but changed his mind and gave the man a quiet word instead. Laguna wove through the crowd, distributing smiles and handshakes as necessary — wait, had the Press Secretary replaced his assistant _again_? never mind, ask tomorrow — working his way over to the corner Squall had chosen to haunt. He looked up to orient himself as the crowd thinned around the edges, and his throat did something funny and uncomfortable as he saw that Squall was already watching him, marking his path and angle of approach. The easy, habitual glide through swathes of people felt different, stilted and self-conscious, under that impassive scrutiny, and Laguna found himself abandoning the pleasantries and drifting over more directly. He could almost feel it as he entered Squall's personal bubble: the air denser, like a cloud casting shadow all around him, Squall's deepening scowl as good as a small-talk-repelling forcefield. At least they wouldn't be interrupted.

Having found himself within arm's length of his quarry, Laguna realized he had no idea what to do. _I used to be a journalist. I did interviews. I swear_. Squall's eyes, previously busy watching Laguna's face and making him all kinds of uncomfortable, suddenly flicked down to Laguna's feet. Laguna glanced down without thinking; all he saw was the slight shuffle of his shoes. He looked back up, puzzled, to find Squall looking away and making a face that might have been exasperated, transferring his weight to his other leg. A beat, two, and then awareness dripped tepidly across his skin — he'd been shifting his weight, could feel the faint beginning of a leg cramp coming on now that he was thinking about it; Squall had echoed the gesture, probably unconsciously, and Laguna wondered again what Squall remembered, what he knew, what Ellone's dreams had felt like to him.

The thought dried his throat; he glanced around for something to talk about and caught sight of the waiter sweeping to his rescue, thank Hyne. Even the imperturbable waitstaff felt it — the man paused a moment outside Squall's do-not-enter radius, then valiantly pressed onward, tray held at an aesthetically impeccable angle. _Give this man a raise._

"Sirs, " the waiter murmured, offering the tray with a bow.

Squall eyed the proffered refreshments — served, still, in the elegant flutes but definitely in a variety of wrong colours and degrees of carbonation to be champagne — and raised an eyebrow in Laguna's direction.

Laguna grinned. "Something a little less boring? Thought you might be interested."

At that, Squall's face did something very confusing — _what? did I say that weird?_ — but settled so quickly Laguna wasn't convinced he hadn't imagined it, and Squall was already reaching for one of the drinks, a clear one that must be vodka. Laguna aimed for one of the temptingly rich amber ones.

"Cheers," he said, raising the glass in Squall’s direction. He waited, one beat too long — two — Squall’s eyes were determinedly on the small cordial-glass in his hand, his face set like stone. _What do I do?_ Laguna had just decided to turn the gesture into a grand flourish and down the entire thing like a shot, movie-star style, when Squall moved, shifted, relented — hope and relief rose in Laguna’s chest, happy fluttering birds — and then Squall lifted his glass to his own mouth, the bastard, and took a long deliberate sip. Laguna’s hand hung in the air, unanswered, and he could have sworn he read a smirk in Squall’s eyes for a fraction of a second.

Laguna choked down the sound that had risen unbidden in his throat, surprised and affronted, and then he _did_ turn his gesture into an elaborate quaff, a half-bow that almost had him coughing up brandy all over Squall’s handsome uniform. _Maybe that would get a reaction out of him._ But resorting to dramatics wouldn’t help him win any points. He’d have to play this Squall’s way. Squall was a professional, right? He had probably been to dinners like this countless times. Why were his palms sweating? "Here, I’ll take this," he said, snagging the tray from the waiter. Delicate crystal chimed as the glasses tottered and clinked, and Laguna felt his leg cramping up. _Oh, good._

Squall raised an eyebrow as Laguna struggled to balance with the tray — how had the waiter managed? Was Kiros hiring acrobats behind his back? "It would help if you drank some of these," Laguna offered with a sideways grin, trying to wave them appetizingly at Squall. They jingled against each other again in a way he fervently hoped Squall found intriguing rather than threatening.

Squall eyed the tray and then shrugged. He downed his glass while delicately plucking another one almost at random and took _that_ in one smooth hit; almost lazily, he dropped the two glasses down on the tray next to each other. Of course they stayed upright. Laguna looked at the tray, offended at its treachery, and then shoved it at the nearest passing waiter.

"I think we all just come to these things to ogle each other," Laguna said before any kind of awkward silence could fall; he _felt_ Squall’s shoulders shifting forward in the increased chill of his demeanor. "I mean, I keep catching people gawking at me. As if they didn’t realize I could tie a tie."

Squall’s tiny shift in stance stated his agreement clearer than any words. Laguna just didn't get it; he'd _seen_ Squall tell people to piss off — in fact, he'd seen Squall do it earlier, to a junior council member, a brilliantly deadpan comment just short of insulting that Laguna was going to have to remember for the next meeting they had — but Squall wasn't giving him any go-away signs. He wasn't giving him _any_ signs; it was like talking to a wall, or a statue, all one-sided conversation and no response.

"They keep glancing over here at you, too," Laguna continued, teasing, _panicking_ at Squall’s silence, his brain-to-mouth filter overloaded and derailed by the weight of it; he hated silences, wrought with all of their dangerous potential to crash and burn. Not that there was too much built between himself and Squall that could be wrecked by going off-course. "Probably wondering who the nice attractive young man in the corner is, and whether they can ask the President for an introduction."

Squall grimaced at this, the first honest gesture he’d made in the entire conversation. Laguna glanced him up and down: SeeD dress uniform, so crisply pressed he must have done it himself in his hotel room, creases making neat lines of his lean build, generous shoulders. The dark fabric suited Squall’s coloring, the gold trim highlighting the light on his dark hair; the kid was good-looking, certainly, and would be even more if he were at all able to _stop frowning._

Squall’s eyes flickered up and Laguna blinked just a second too late, caught in his too-obvious regard, and he flushed, thinking of Squall in his hotel room, carefully (angrily?) and precisely ironing out the wrinkles from his haphazard travel — Laguna had seen the duffel bag, it wasn’t even _real luggage_ — and this was such a big dumb mess, and his mouth opened before he could think better of it. "See anyone here you want to get to know better?"

The glare Squall shot him flickered strangely, as if even Squall couldn’t decide how to reply, and Laguna frowned: _I seem to be messing this up really badly, somehow._ "That is what these things are for, you know."

Squall’s lips pursed, and Laguna didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked to Laguna’s own suit jacket before his face cooled into composure again. "I’m good," Squall said, noncommittal, skirting the edges of polite.

Laguna wanted to frown, but he didn’t. He certainly recognized an unwelcome battle field when shown one; he hadn’t made it this far in his career without knowing when to retreat. "Well, if you want anything else, you know where to find me." It came out strangely low, and intense, with the way it rattled around the space between them, bouncing off of Squall’s walls and glower until it held too many meanings.

Laguna made a little awkward bow in Squall’s direction and hurried off to find someone who would make him feel like the President of Esthar again, not twelve and helpless with it.

  


_________________________________

  


Squall shucked his uniform as soon as the door was closed, wishing all the evening's impressions would leave his skin with it; he never liked that after-feeling of a formal party, the way the scent of too many bodies lingered in the uniform's thick fabric, like all the fakery and stiff smiles left impressions on it that mixed with the uncomfortable sweat that always dripped between his shoulderblades, slicking against his skin under the clothes. Rinoa — Rinoa had always laughed at him, slipped out of her own dresses with a playful tease of curves, scrubbed between his shoulders in the shower, her smile up-curled and mischievous. Squall scowled. He hadn't drunk enough — despite Laguna and his strange intensity and insistent variety of alcohol — to have much of an uplifting effect at this later hour, but it was enough to give his thoughts an unhelpful degree of slipperiness, one sliding into another with too little control. He pushed all of them firmly aside.

The bathroom _gleamed_ when he flicked on the light and for a second he hesitated; skipping the shower was almost better than this ridiculous glittering brightness right now— then he turned them back off, backed up and switched on the lights by the bed. With the door open, it left enough light in the bathroom that he wouldn't split his head open on any of these surfaces, architectural and functional and everywhere.

He breathed out when the water hit his skin, sluicing away the dinner's residue, sweat and smells and memories: he could almost feel them running down his skin, the slide of Laguna's eyes and the non-smell of really good vodka and he didn't want to think about any of it, didn't want to remember it again. He reached for his Guardians, for the litany of checks and rechecks, the routine a soothing distraction as he sifted through his inner organization, setting them in order for the night. Cerberus submitted to the once-over and retreated to his dark corner without comment. Shiva... Shiva responded like a cat stretching, like the upward curve of a woman's naked back, yearning up into a hand, chill and distantly sensuous. Cold sympathy bloomed across his skin, the shower suddenly scalding-hot against it, and Squall hissed: _stop that_. An icy crackle of laughter echoed in his thoughts, faint unaffiliated brushes of memory — _someone skating on a frozen lake, and the ice breaking; the deep booming crack of glaciers; warmth glimpsed from the outside as frost rimed the window_ — and then she, too, quieted and settled into her place in his mind.

Squall's hand snapped up to shut off the shower before its real temperature registered again, and he breathed into the ringing silence of the dark bathroom, the water drying cold on his skin. Shiva's echoes rippled inside him, soft and unsettling, brushing against the Bond, stirring echoes and memories — phantom hands, Rinoa's, on his skin, and he gritted his teeth, hollow anger thick in his throat, the faint taste of alcohol still hot on his tongue and making his breath an icy burn as it hissed between his teeth.

He yanked a towel loose from the abundant array, jerky motions chafing himself dry; fumbled for boxers in the dim light, his walk to the bed too unsteady. The sheets were crisp and cool as his back sank against them, the unsteady afterwash of alcohol mixing with the Bond's disorientation and it felt like falling backwards into nothing, the belly-float of zero gravity, and he sucked a breath in, tamped down on all his memories of space and the emptiness between stars. His breath rattled loud in the night.

His mind had been too full, the night he'd spent on the train — full of a buzzing irritation, full of the duties he was leaving behind or reassigning or taking with him — full of a _blankness_ , a void of thought; and this night's emptiness was different, cavernous and strange, stirring old dark things that wanted to fight out of his skin, like some ancient part of him-not-him knew that he should be _there_ , not _here_ , and Squall's mouth tightened as he fought away the yearning of the Knight, the call of the night, the touch of things outside himself.

Squall breathed, ice and emptiness, even; the disoriented desire faded under his resolve, like a far-off keen. It left him feeling— hollow. It left him remembering, how Rinoa would wake with her eyes full of tears and eternities, the echo of her dreams pulling at him, something vast and protective, and him, _just him, dammit_ , reaching out to touch her shivering skin.

It was almost strange, to not have her there to share this distant, hollow echo of magic with, and he found his throat was dry. Her absence was an actual space beside him, and for a moment—

He swallowed, wetting his throat. Blinked his eyes open to find the half-lit ceiling mundane and blank above him, edged by the bed's draperies; a light faint buzz of alcohol lingering along his veins and all the irritated exhaustion after the dinner still riding his shoulders. His breath trickled out of him, and he closed his eyes again for a moment before reaching up for the lights.

  


_________________________________

  


Squall showed up for the tour in his SeeD uniform and Laguna's stomach sank. He wasn't stupid; he understood just fine that uniforms could be roles, defenses, distance — excuses to never step outside a comfortable context. Laguna was acutely aware of his own loose shirt and half-bare arms. And maybe that had been a bad idea, canceling everyone else's plans and making this a more private outing, but after the — okay, disaster, that had been last night. Maybe it was just that Squall didn't like crowds. Or maybe the uniform was a sign. Or not. Maybe Squall just hadn't gotten the memo.

"Er," he angled, "did you check your messages this morning?"

Squall gave him that unreadable deadpan look. "Yes."

The stomach situation failed to improve at this and was joined by a foot shuffle ( _cut it out, leg cramps don't go well with hikes_ ). Laguna tucked imaginary loose hair behind his ear, and caught Squall watching the nervous gesture; Squall's hand, hanging loose by his thigh, gave the barest twitch and Laguna looked away from this unhelpful reminder that Squall knew all his tics from the inside out. It seemed unfair, that Squall was so unreadable to him, giving him nothing but a reflection of all the habits that had been so comfortably unconscious before.

Disappointed silence clung to the air, sticky and a little pathetic. Laguna cleared his throat. "Well. Let's get started?" He hadn't meant for his voice to turn that into a question.

Squall frowned. "We're not waiting?"

"Waiting? Did you— um. What?" _I am a political mastermind. In my spare time._

Squall regarded him with a look that very clearly said both _What_ and _Are you some kind of idiot._ This conversation was quite evidently happening on two entirely different wavelengths. Laguna tried again. "What would we wait for?"

Irritation seemed to pull actual elaborating honesty out of Squall. "A herd of bureaucrats all wanting their opinions heard in triplicate."

Laguna blinked. Then he laughed, as much out of surprise at the grumpy humour as at the unsteady wash of relief. Squall had misread his note, somehow. The uniform didn't mean anything. This trip might still stand a chance. But even as he relaxed by inches, some undercurrent still whispered in sluggish discontent at the way Squall's reactions could make his stomach flip-flop, at this new weird dependence and the way Squall deflected it. Laguna grabbed at the thread of conversation, stubbornly paving over his doubts.

"No," he said. "Just us this time." And he smiled, a little crooked.

Squall gave him a long, long, quiet look; the irritation at least seemed to fade from his face but whatever was left there made Laguna's spine itch with how it was both direct and unreadable. Laguna resisted the urge to twitch his shoulders — or his feet, or his hands — and felt unnaturally stuffed and still under Squall's gaze.

And finally, finally, Squall just shrugged, and Laguna ignored the tepid melt of his stomach to find that the crooked smile still fit fine on his face: good enough. "Well, let's hit the road, huh?"

He ambled over to the car. Squall climbed in the passenger side as Laguna settled in to drive, one hand relaxed and low on the wheel. "Anyway," he continued, "this way you won't have ten different people telling you why _this_ site is good for _their_ interests and the others are all wrong and blah blah blah." _Ha! That was almost a smile. It_ was. "I already know all that. And you don't really want to hear what sites are good for Esthar—" a small almost — startled? — glance aside from Squall, dammit why did he have to keep his eyes on the road "—and I don't want to hear it _again_. I wanna hear what sites are good for _Garden_. I—um," Laguna stumbled along with the invitation, feeling like it was entirely too naked, "wanna hear what _you_ think."

And this time Laguna could not resist a sidelong glance, only to immediately realize that Squall had his elbow propped on the open window just like Laguna did and the uncomfortable self-awareness dripped over him again. But Squall remained blank-faced, and if anything had flickered across his expression at the first, Laguna had been too distracted by his _elbow_ to notice. Now Squall just looked straight ahead, the car's breeze catching at his hair. Laguna tried not to make his swallow too obvious.

"I'll write up a report," Squall said at last, dry, and it took Laguna beat to realize that had been a _joke_.

A chuckle bubbled up his throat, helplessly, even as some part of him felt hollow that Squall hadn't said — something. Anything else. Anything less— _impersonal_.

The first site came up on their right, and Laguna pulled over, gratefully. They climbed out and Laguna occupied himself with pointing out the site's features, rattling off the geography. Squall — Squall was quiet, observing, asking a few to-the-point questions and otherwise... saying very little. Laguna wound down the litany, and couldn't help adding a "So?" to the end. He tried not to cringe.

Squall was silent for a moment, thinking. "It's close. Convenient, but maybe too close. A Garden shouldn't be close enough to a sponsor city that a single strike could hit both." Another pause. "Land's all right. A little too open and even. We'd have to make an artificial training ground for maneuvering on different terrain."

And Squall turned to look at him, and that was, all too plainly, it. Laguna blew out a breath. "Well. Ha. I didn't like this site much, either. The city development people really wanted it, and the budget was nice, for managing the commuting, but otherwise it's really just, eh, okay." And the babble was off, Laguna all too aware of it, and of how he propped his arm up when he got back in the car to drive; of how Squall's silences felt like hollow spaces in the air.

The other sites went the same, Laguna filling the empty silences with information, the rhythm of his own words — punctuated by Squall's silences and all-too-infrequent responses — seeming to drum a weight down onto him, the outing falling flat around him even as he couldn't help but rise inside a little as they neared the end, the last site. They pulled up to the series of low ridges, finally, and Laguna blew out a covert breath as he turned off the ignition.

And for once, his babble dried up, and all he managed was: "Up there." A wave of his hand. Squall's eyes followed the gesture up the sharp upward sweep of land, but he waited for Laguna to take the lead. The scrubby hills coughed dust onto their pants with their every step, and Laguna felt a momentary twinge for Squall's uniform, followed by a grumpy _It's not my fault he can't read_.

Laguna scrambled over the next rise, paused for a moment on the ridge to savour the tug of wind in his hair and, more surreptitiously, catch his breath. Squall didn't seem in the least winded and Laguna indulged in a little envy of his youth, blithely choosing the ignore the fact that he had definitely not been that fit at Squall's age. The car looked small and lonely down below, but it wasn't that far a hike, really. Squall hovered silently, turning to see what Laguna was looking at, and an urge to explain tugged at him — he felt a little stupid trekking up here on foot, as if Squall's silence was censure. But then Squall turned to continue on, apparently having lost interest once he knew that Laguna was just gauging the distance from the car; his steps were strong and steady on the uneven, rocky ground, navigating between the springy tussocks of grass and aiming for the last ridge. Laguna watched without speaking, acutely aware of the anxiety rippling across the skin of his back now that Squall was about to see the place.

Squall reached the top and stopped. Laguna couldn't see his face, but after a moment he saw Squall tip his head back, just a little, errant breezes playing in his hair, and he knew that Squall's eyes were closed. He needed to see it, all of a sudden, wanted to see his expression, wanted to see what Squall looked like relaxed. Wanted to see if he loved this place like Laguna did. He hiked up the rise, pushing off his knees with his hands with his hurry, but when he had drawn almost even with Squall he was suddenly afraid that he'd turn only to see Squall shuttered again, unwelcoming and unreadable.

Words came, instead, soft and spoken to the vista below them, both of them looking down into the vale and not at each other.

"This last one is my favourite. No car access from this side yet — the road would go there, that little dip — and we could have done a flyover, but I wanted you to see..." He trailed off, and his arm came up to point out the rill sparkling on the far side, the fascinating rise of rocky formations to the right where cadets could train, the flat sweep where aircraft could land, and the break through the trees where rails could go. Drifts of grass staggered, swaying in the breeze, across the sloped shallow half-bowl of land. His hand turned over, palm up, as if cupping the rocky rolling little valley for a moment, the jag of his fingers echoing the scrape of mountain on the vale's far side. Then his fingers crumpled in, light and a little hesitant, closing his hand again and letting it drift down. "It looks small, from the air. I like how it looks from here better."

Squall was silent for a long moment. "It's... nice," he managed at last, and Laguna felt distinctly tepid. He tried to assure himself that, for Squall, it was evidently a very encouraging show of support. But this mantra fell flat against the confusing array of expectations and hopes and anxieties that had somehow crept all over Laguna in the past few weeks. He didn't even know what he wanted out of this thing with Squall. But whatever it was he wanted, Squall seemed uninterested in giving it to him. And Laguna, with a slick of nausea, knew that in all honesty he couldn't blame Squall for that, had no place wishing Squall was— different: friendlier, more open with him, anything at all. Squall had no way of knowing how much this little pocket of rolling land reminded Laguna of Winhill — what were a few stolen hours in that place to him? And Laguna could tell him. Anytime. He almost did, feeling the disappointment bubble up as the beginning of words — bitter or eager, he didn't even know — but it was the _almost_ that bit at him, the acrid taste of swallowing it all back down, because the thing that was really making him sick was the slow stained dawning of suspicion: maybe this was so awkward and halting and not-happening not because of Squall but because of _him_ , because he'd always been a terrible father and known it. And maybe — maybe some part of him didn't even want to try.

Laguna sat down, suddenly tired, not caring that his hair had escaped the tail again.

  


_________________________________

  


Formless terror slammed through a confused anxious impression of Laguna pushing him toward some nebulous twisting thing; he clawed his way up out of a welter of — _fearpainpanicohnonono_ — cold air burned down his throat in a ragged gasp and he was fighting with his sheets, thrashing inside the damp tangled fabric. He stilled, immediately; clamped a forced calm over his thrilling nerves, over the shriek of his mind; forced his eyes shut and his mind open. He groped for the sideways-listen that let him talk to his GFs, that diving-backwards — he felt like his fingers would be shaking, slipping off some surface as his hands scrabbled all over it— _Breathe_. He tried it again -- precious seconds devoted to doing it slow and calm, doing it right — and it never felt _right_ , it was just the best way they'd found so far, misaligned and imperfect — _there_. No mental _click_ of connection, more like half-catching a radio station under blaring static; Squall slid mind-sideways, searching: _Rinoa Rinoa Rinoa_ —

Breath. Breathing. For a moment, he couldn't tease it apart from his own sensations, so faint, the feeling so much like what he wanted to be doing himself: short sharp jerks of breath, ripples of fear, distant and muddled like thoughts at the back of his own mind. Then it faded out, hovering above him for a moment— then rushed back in, too overwhelming to interpret, a moment of perfect clarity of doubled existence, two heartbeats and two breaths, two sets of hands shaking, and far too much tangled thought and feeling for him to understand. Squall gritted his teeth, hands fisting in the damp-cold sheets (separate sensation, just him, only _his_ hands), and rode out the fluctuations of the Bond — Hyne it was always so slick-nauseous, trying to listen on purpose, trying to _see_ —

Vastness came, white glory, _wings_ , love and fear thrilling through his fingers, up his spine, distant awareness of his fragile shell of a body fighting for breath drowned out by the endless rush of true magic unleashed, echoing in his blood, rippling under his skin, singing to him even across this tenuous connection, across the faded half-shattered remnants of the Bond, tearing at all his allegiances — _follow this anywhere, wait for me, I'll be there, I'll be there_ —

 _No_. Hiss, his breath, Squall fighting to remember himself as Knight breathed out of him everywhere, erupting from his skin as if he sweated loyalty to this vast and distant being, iron in his blood drawn like a magnet— _No_. He didn't want the Sorceress, he wanted _Rinoa_ , and he dug through the blaring static, looking for her, but that was never what this gave, layers and layers and layers of Sorceress, hundreds of years passed down hand to hand to hand, echoing into the future — where was Rinoa in all this endlessness?

Fire, ice, fear and triumph and pain, and he couldn't reach Rinoa anywhere under it and then — _Squall, Squall, **please**_ , a flash of her face under the snarl of magic, like a hand reaching out to him but he couldn't _move_ , Bond too broken, connection too weak, and he snarled at himself — _is this what we chose, the two of us?_ — and the connection faded again, the glimpse of real-Rinoa fading with it before it slammed through him again, vast and white and holy, then away, sick and dizzy with the disconnect — and then the endless well collapsed like something had shattered it and Squall screamed inside for a moment, **_NO_** , before he felt the garbled echo of exhaustion, of breathing, of quiet ( _Silence_ ); healing wind and shelter — something, something else, some connection he couldn't touch — a rush of relief that wasn't his own and all the flare-sparks of confused emotions fading into the distance, the Sorceress gone and the unsteady blare of connection with her and he was slipping off the surface again, looking for Rinoa underneath everything but all that was left behind was a vague sense of security that felt entirely out of place along his sweaty nerve-taut skin.

And then just the night, and his breathing, and the shivers of cold air along his body.

He opened his eyes. Blew out one long breath through his nose. Sat up and threw off the sheets, stumbled to the bathroom and waited to see if he would be sick.

Something had happened, something with Rinoa, bad enough to echo down to him even — even with everything. She was safe, now; he knew that like he knew which way was down and it gave him just as little comfort as he wavered on his feet, off-balance and nauseous. Saliva pooled in his mouth, sickly sweet, and he hunched over the sink and spat, once; no pre-vomit tension followed and he waited, tasting bile. Long training took over the medical self-monitoring with professional detachment as his thoughts boiled, furiously and sluggishly, slow and thick in the aftermath of Bond-listening and sudden magic and interrupted sleep. He was trying to listen, even now, but it was hit-or-miss at the best of times and now that Rinoa was calmer he could barely feel anything — but his mind still echoed with it like the aftershocks of a rung bell, and he breathed. His body alerted him and he spat again, automatically. The computer was right outside; he could call. No. Quistis was there; he wouldn't interrupt her dealing with the emergency. She would give him a report soon — this morning at the latest, late night her time. Whatever had happened had been in broad daylight. The news feeds would be all over it. Spit, much less this time; he wiped his mouth and ran some water. Should he alert Laguna? The man insisted on press-awareness. No, he didn't have enough information, and this didn't have anything to do with Laguna — why had he thought of him, anyway? He grimaced, then washed his face with cool water.

His reflection looked haggard in the mirror, pupils still blown wide, hair damp with sweat and rinsewater. The night seemed too quiet to contain what had happened within it, and his nerves stretched at the silence; he put his face in his hands, shaky and unpleasant everywhere from the invasion of sensation, all this magic that was none of his business, nothing he knew about, nothing simple. His thoughts seemed to cast about, formless with exhaustion— and caught on an alien tinge of curiousity. _Cerberus_ , he realized. His Guardians, still listening, from his vain attempts to learn more of what happened. Not quite in tune, but he'd stirred them up with his reaching. He was about to force his attention away — how was that review of GF use policy going? He had to ask Zell, he'd lost track of it... A thought occurred to him, and he jerked himself back, sinking quick and automatic into his own mind, seeking Cerberus again.

 _Did you hear anything? Anything more than I did?_

Cerberus whined, a friendly wuffle in his head; _he’s trying to describe it to Rinoa, but she ends up teasing him about having his own Angelo in his head and he gives up because she isn’t really listening—_ Squall caught that thought-memory in hungry fingers, angrily hefting it away from his concentration, as if throwing away refuse. _You couldn’t have eaten that one?_

A flash of cool regard pierced the noisy mess in his head and Squall almost sighed in relief: _Shiva,_ like balm, cold and compatible, easy with it. Shiva keened, an almost-crystal sound like the sun on ice, a hawk’s-cry on a cold day, brilliant and sharp, and Squall didn’t know how to ask but didn’t really have to.

Shiva spun images like snowflakes, flicking upwards from her fingertips like wayward knitting: _wings — feathers, sharp and pointed, pinpricks of Holy — a line of fire, crossing stone like an emblem — Rinoa: drowning — a wall, Reflect, fire and ice merging and mixing into white-pearl-noise and pain, painpain **pain**_ **—**

Squall gagged; breathed in, ragged, and Shiva’s soothing hand caressed his sweating forehead. _What else,_ he asked, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know; he braced himself, staring into the mirror, his eyes suddenly looking uncannily unlike his own and he wondered whether this was what it was like for Rinoa, what it had been like every time she’d mis-dreamed and ended up strewn across the bathroom floor in heaving sobs he couldn’t understand, as if her half-gasped words were a different language. _What else, Shiva?_

Shiva keened and Cerberus started up, a low rumbling growl he felt as a sharp sensation right where his skull met his neck: not pain, but close, dangling along the line of too-much. _Rinoa smiling, her finger pointing upwards; millions of stars wheeling, plunging, pulled to the earth by gravity — becoming darts, ice, flowers, feathers — tiny bullets piercing wings, shards of frozen ice — a sudden sharp pain in his chest, gaping wound staring back at him — Rinoa, reflected off of a million mirrors, faces that were and were not hers, were and were not Sorceress, and they all looked familiar. He and not-Rinoa at Balamb’s Annual Fair, eating tarts; him and not-Rinoa dancing at the first SeeD ball after the conflict; not-Rinoa waking beside him, her lips gentle and soft—_

Squall growled and slammed his hand into the wall next to the mirror, pressing his palm into it with angry force, fingertips digging in as if he could gouge all of this out of plaster and paint, fill this gaping crater in his heart with mortar and cement. _Here,_ he spat, angrily, as Cerberus and Shiva wheeled about each other in a slow yin-yang, as his rage gaped beneath them like a chasm. _You like memories?_ His hand twitched against the wall and he thought of half-a-dozen things simultaneously: Rinoa, with a flower pinned in her hair; Rinoa in his office, standing by the door, the look on her face already leagues away from him; Laguna, bearing a tray of cordials and the smile that embodied everything Squall wanted to punch walls about. Rinoa, standing in the sea, tired and lovely and leaving him. Squall bunched them together in his fingers like a bouquet of crumpled flowers: _Here. Take **these**_ , thrusting them in the mental direction of his Guardians, huddled together in wait as he retched these memories up towards them like a heaving gift.

 _No?_ Their refusal to do anything other than watch him in a still sort of dismay-amusement-concern-apathy only irritated Squall further. _Don’t like the taste of those? Neither do I. That’s the point._ His mind veered away from further thoughts of Rinoa; they were blossoming across the surface of his mind’s-eye as if Shiva were dredging them slowly from the deep: _Stop that._ Abruptly he made himself think of Laguna: irritation struck him across the brow and Squall welcomed it, the fresh shallow burning frustration so different from the deep throbbing pain of the Bond that it felt like release even as his headache spiked. _Laguna, in the ballroom, watching him with uncanny eyes across the room; Laguna, greeting him that morning with a huge smile and a bright-green 'pistachio' muffin; him-in-Laguna, younger and laughing at Kiros, as that woman Raine poured them more wine (it figures he would drink white)_ ; Squall grabbed at all of these, _I dreamt I was a moron again,_ and thrust them towards Cerberus. _Laguna’s body, younger; his leg cramping as he shyly eyed the lovely woman in the red dress, watching white fingers idle a glass of wine; I don’t_ want _these._ He pulled from the base of his skull, strands catching on each other, tendrils spreading: _him-in-Laguna, younger, teaching little Elle how to play baseball (those aren’t the real rules!); Laguna, handing him a folder of notes, his smile quirking a little to the side._ Squall balled them up into a wad of tangled memory and shoved, because he didn’t want any of this anymore--

But Cerberus didn’t budge, and the memories went spinning past Squall’s sense of _him-it-Guardian_ back into the darkness, where they splashed and sank. The ripples smelled like Rinoa and Squall sank to the floor of the bathroom. _Why won’t you take any of this?_

There was a faint sense of waiting, as if someone had taken a deep breath — and then Squall felt Shiva stir, blessed numbness spreading from the center of her presence as she cast a layer of ice-snow-crystal, _love-obedience-cold_ : of not-feeling over the agony of the Bond and the muted frustration of his last few days (weeks) ( _months)_ and it was the feeling of a hush, someone whispering him to sleep as all the lights slowly dimmed.

Squall leaned his head back against the bathroom wall. He must have slept, because when he opened his eyes, his muscles were stiff with cold and his mouth tasted dry, and Shiva and Cerberus were still weaving blissful silence in the back of his mind.

He stood— stumbled his way back into the room, his mind sweetly blank and empty, intending nothing but to drop into bed and sleep through Laguna's entire schedule — but then he saw the light on his console blinking, steady and even, and suddenly he was in his chair mashing the _on_ button, his mouth full of _RinoaRinoaRinoa_ as it came back to him, the sick feeling knotting like tumbling stones in his stomach as he waited for the computer to load.

The note was from Quistis, in official mission missive format. _Location: Timber, former library site. Damages sustained: Structural. Injuries sustained by employer: None. Injuries sustained by SeeD: None. Resources used: None._ In the slot for description, she'd simply typed, _surprise attack (assassination?) on employer; a trap was left at the library site. Civilians harmed. Heartilly and Trepe uninjured._

It was brief, _too fucking short,_ and for a minute Squall was filled with an irrational rage towards Quistis: what the _hell_ did she think this was, the world's shortest mission missive, as if Rinoa hadn't screamed terror and defiance and holy-bright-pain into his _heart_ just a few hours ago? Where were the details? Where was the little note, attached at the end, Quistis' bossy-sister voice telling him everything was alright, Rinoa was okay, here's exactly what had happened down to the angle of the sun and she had already bought him a ticket to Timber? But no — and _what the hell_ were they doing in Timber anyway?

He read it again. Still devoid of details, of answers, of any sort of reassurance. He closed his eyes and breathed, fumbling around the peace his GFs had built for him until he could feel the beat of the Bond, unsteady like breath but still there. Belatedly he realized his orders for Quistis had been simply to act as Rinoa's bodyguard; if Rinoa had left Garden — _dammit, Rin, can't you ever listen_ — she would have had no choice but to follow... and his previous rage transmuted directly into a sobering gratitude, quiet and almost ashamed; whatever had happened, Quistis had in fact kept Rinoa safe. Quistis Trepe wouldn't lie on an interim mission missive. Squall read it a third time, trying to peel details from the handful of words with his eyes. Maybe this was somehow Quistis' revenge for the bad missions he'd sent her on, for years of being ignored, for being told to go talk to a wall. Or maybe Rinoa had asked her to be brief. Did it matter?

Squall realized he was reading it for a fourth time, and snapped the console shut immediately. He stalked over to the bed but couldn't bring himself to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling and digesting the report until his brain was full of acid and bile. He sat down, instead, and put his head in his hands.

 _Stay safe._ It had been the last thing he'd said to her, and it echoed now in his memory, mocking and sad.

  


_________________________________

  


Watching Squall in meetings was painful. At first he'd just looked bored; now he wore a strange combination of boredom and exhaustion, written lightly into the lines of his face. Laguna doubted anyone in the room would notice, as he doubted anyone else here had spent the majority of the previous day watching every single expression flicker across Squall's face (except maybe Kiros, who might have done so just for fun). It wasn't hard to count Squall's expressions in meetings. He flicked through shades of detached boredom like the grayest rainbow ever: annoyance, frustration, distraction, contemplation - and a strangely insulting vague interest, as if the speaker was _this close_ to becoming truly interesting but continued to fall short of the mark. Laguna had noted the last one mainly because Squall had directed it at him, time and time again. Maybe it was supposed to look polite. Laguna was finding he had a great deal of trouble reading his son; his own expressions skewed towards the grand and excited and would have looked positively clownish on the kid's face. It was hard to work without a manual. Or an introductory course. Say, the first seventeen or so years.

But now he had a baseline to set this all against, and Squall looked just _tired_ —and strangely _angry_ with it, as if he were actually upset at his own body's weakness, or the lack of control his iron will could exert on something as simple as staying awake. And it wasn't benign exhaustion, either; Laguna caught icy shadows flickering in Squall's eyes, when he took a moment too long to blink the stone mask back over his face.

 _Not that I'm watching or anything._ Kiros elbowed him; Laguna jerked back to attention, grinning - and then he flicked his eyes to Squall again, who had momentarily moved into 'annoyed and bored' at Laguna's completely obvious inattention.

Right. Meeting. Laguna made the right gesture eventually, and the presentation continued. Laguna made a mental note not to drag Squall to so many meetings — and then frowned as he compared that with the mental schedule he'd constructed for next week, which was almost all meetings. Dammit. He'd already shown Squall the sites, too — wasted that opportunity on the first day, so eager to make some kind of connection; maybe they could head out again? These awful formal meetings, at least, had to go - something more lively, with lots of drinks, and food. Only the best, from Esthar.

He risked another look at Squall, whose face had gone back into 'neutral bored'; Laguna eyed the shadows, the faint hoods under Squall's eyes, the kind of thing he wouldn't have noticed had he not spent all of yesterday secretly learning his son's face, his eyes hungry and roving for any small hints of himself, angles of Raine, planes of some combination of the two. It was hard, too, because his conclusions kept jolting him in and out of reality; he'd look at Squall and start to learn the slope of his nose, and then Squall's head would turn and a glint of Raine would flash into his eyes and Laguna would remember: _this is your **kid.**_ But Squall didn't seem like _his_.

It had been hard enough for Laguna when he'd realized what happened, when Ellone had taken _him_ back-into-himself (and wasn't _that_ a weird experience he kind of regretted having) to show him, the obvious potential of her joy quenched instantly by the shock of his reaction. This — Squall, _here_ — was harder.

Laguna set his mouth. He wasn't going to make a big deal out of it if Squall wasn't. He would follow Squall's lead in this, too: if Squall didn't want to talk about it, then fine, they could talk about plenty of other stuff. For now, they could just get to learn each other. _But not by having meetings, you moron!_ His mouth twisted into a half-frown, no longer so firmly decided; this was a business-trip, made obvious by the professional distance Squall was keeping between himself and— everything, but it couldn't be _all_ business. His head began to fill with plans: taking Squall out on the town, maybe a pub crawl like he and Ward and Kiros had done so many times when they were younger; heading out to dinner, trying one of those fancy places with eight forks and an obligatory wine tasting...

He watched Squall's expression begin to fade into 'wearily bored' and wondered what it was that was eating away at the edges of Squall's composure, this exhaustion he was carrying around like very faint static over a radio. Maybe complex plans weren't the right way to start this out.

Laguna sighed through his teeth. Was it supposed to be this _hard?_

  


_________________________________

  


The car slowed to a stop outside the Presidential Palace, and Laguna got out first, stopping to hold the door open and gallantly wave Squall from the vehicle. Squall followed, managing to glower only slightly. The mostly-pleasant, almost relaxed mood the good wine and appetizers had induced in him was fading as the alcohol buzz faded — Squall hated how much he enjoyed the feeling of being drunk; Laguna, weaving happily through his own front doors, seemed to have no such qualms — and he was fairly ready to retire to his room and read Quistis’ mission missive for the forty-second time before bed. The casual meeting had gone fairly well, for a meeting; he was sick of them, but at least this one had been productive — apparently Estharian dignitaries needed to be bribed with wine before they would discuss budgets. He’d have to remember that for the next couple days.

Laguna stopped at the double doors leading to the side elevator — stopped, and looked back at Squall, his face suddenly pensive. Laguna wore everything he was thinking on his face, Squall thought, with a bit of disdain; it was amazing he got anything done being so obvious with his real opinions — although it probably helped that Laguna’s range of emotion covered mostly things from _Hey, that’s kind of cool_ to _Hey, that’s really really cool_ and on rare occasions, _Man, that is so cool I would like to cover it in glitter-pen exclamation points._

"What do you say we—" Laguna stopped, frowned, and backed up over his own words. "Would you like to come down to the corner pub with me? Us. With us. Kiros and I usually head down around the corner for a drink when we can, and tonight’s a really good night for it." He shrugged, turning on that broad-wattage smile he wore so much, easy charm seeping from his face. "I know it’s silly, but I actually enjoy really cheap beer."

Squall frowned, trying to think of an excuse that would sound plausible, because Laguna knew his whole schedule — he hadn’t told Laguna about the news from Timber yet, although he was sure the general gist of it had been relayed through the news stations by now. He just really wasn’t in the mood — not that he _ever_ was, but the thought of an evening making stilted forced conversation with Laguna and Kiros, fighting that high-beam shit-eating grin Laguna wore all the time and trying to keep up with fanciful conversation while his brain turned Rinoa and Timber over and over again on a neverending circuit — he was really _really_ not in the mood.

But as he looked up at Laguna, something faltered on the man’s face. Laguna shrugged, sighed, and opened the double doors, holding them open for Squall. "Okay, look," he said, and his voice for once didn’t sound falsely cheerful, or optimistic, or — or falsely anything; he just sounded defeated. "Don’t break your brain coming up with an excuse. It’s alright." He didn’t sound mad; the words weren’t angry. They just... were. Squall frowned.

Laguna shook his head. "You know, you’re lucky," he said, and he smiled — a small, sad smile, something wrought with an intricacy that flashed across his face for all of two seconds: bitterness, joy, relief, disappointment. Then he sighed. "You’re the guest here. If you don’t feel like being cordial, you can go right ahead and be a jackass, because you know we’re all going to keep trying to impress you no matter what."

The strangest thing was, it wasn’t a criticism — it wasn’t snarky, or bitter, or begrudging. It was just a fact, delivered calmly into a small secluded personal space between them — a space Squall was suddenly and physically aware of. Laguna’s eyes were on him, serious but not judging; curious but not prying. It was a completely different side of the glimmering firework-wheel that was President Laguna Loire — and yet not; this new identity, the simple and genuine side of the man, slipped itself neatly into Squall’s heightened awareness of Laguna like a missing puzzle piece.

It didn't help that the only other person to ever really talk straight to him this way - straight and _honest,_ highlighting his good points and bad points in perfect tandem like _facts of life_ instead of excuses or, worse, projects; as if people's personalities were just things to be talked about like the weather - had been _Rinoa._

And now Laguna frowned, as if Squall’s response — or, to be honest, lack of response; Squall _really had to stop_ getting lost in thought around this man — had confused him substantially.

"You don’t need to impress me," Squall said finally, the first words to come to his tongue - and he had _absolutely no idea what he meant by that,_ but somehow he knew it was the truth.

Laguna’s mouth quirked sideways in an almost-smile. "Don’t I?"

Squall took a second to try to figure out what that meant — one second too long, because Laguna nodded goodnight at him and headed to the stairs, presumably to retrieve Kiros from whatever other boring meeting he’d been trapped in, destination: the corner bar.

For a brief swift moment so fleeting and fast Squall felt it hit him behind the knees, unbalancing his senses, he thought about meeting them there.


	5. Chapter 5

The damage to Timber hadn't been bad, Quistis thought; it could have been a lot worse — but then again, it could have been a lot better, and the way her thoughts tracked over the runaway remnants of Rinoa's magic, the portions of the library that had been trampled into _smaller_ particles of dust by the X-ATM386 (when Galbadia had upgraded that model, Quistis didn't really know, and she'd already tasked Xu with _finding the hell out_ in a brief but succinct morning email) gave credence to her theory. Things could have been a lot better in Timber in general.

Sadly, it wasn't really the damage to Timber she was concerned about; it was the damage to Rinoa. What had happened to the girl in the past few weeks to make her magic unravel so? Quistis remembered them in the war, in the future, magic pouring from Rinoa's tranced fingertips over and over again, Junctioned spells cast without cost: she'd had better control in the very beginning, when they were all still learning to merge the concepts of _Rinoa Heartilly_ and _Sorceress_ in their minds. It was really a worry, a testament to the fragile state of the poor girl's mind, an almost audible cry for help. Which was why Quistis was here, knocking on the door of the bedroom in which Rinoa Heartilly, Sorceress, was hiding.

The door opened. Rinoa looked... _scared._ There were large dark circles under her eyes, which actually held remnants of terror and worry rather than tears; as Quistis stepped in, she noticed Rinoa's hands were still shaking. The door shut softly behind them, a gentle click too quiet to be anything but deliberate. Rinoa stood by the door, her arms wrapped around herself, looking sadly at the floor.

"Rinoa," Quistis began, already kicking herself, because she didn't know how to be comforting — she had _tried,_ for years, and in the end all she'd learned to do was be tactfully direct. "Can we... can we talk?"

Rinoa's laugh was hollow, self-conscious, sad. "I know," she said, her voice soft and dull; it worried Quistis, for Rinoa was usually vibrant: sky-blue cheer, pink-hot anger, golden annoyance. "I know I owe you an explanation, Quisty, because this is _my fault_ — our fault, mine and Squall's, really, and that means I really just —don't know what to do." The last few words came out in a rush and Rinoa sank on to the bed, her arms wrapping about herself more tightly, looking miserable.

"You don't owe me any kind of explanation," Quistis said diplomatically, although her brain was whirling at the thought, trying to piece together Rinoa's sudden lack of control with Squall, with this mission. "But I'm — I'm here to listen, if you need." The words were offered clumsily, because she really didn't know how to extend this kind of peace offering, this kind of lifeline. But Rinoa looked lost, like a first-year cadet who just _wasn't getting it;_ like a young orphan taken into Garden who just wanted her family back.

"I'm just..." Rinoa looked up, then, her face lost and confused. "I'm afraid to say it out loud, because that makes it... _real._ You know?" She laughed, low and small. "Isn't that stupid?"

"Not at all." Quistis sat down beside her on the bed, because at least this was a role she knew how to play: listener, guidance counselor. She'd done this countless times for new students — and yet it still didn't feel any more genuine; who was she, to think she could help someone like Rinoa? Nevertheless, she gathered it around herself like a costume, focusing on Rinoa and what Rinoa needed to hear. "I promise I won't tell a soul."

Rinoa swallowed, and when she spoke, her voice was no longer small: it was an ocean, a torrent of anguish and disappointment and lonely loss. "Squall and I have been... we've been fight— it's been bad lately." Her hands clenched in her lap, fingers twitching like small white birds. "It's like nothing we do will work. We _try_." Her voice broke on it, and there was a long ugly moment while Rinoa fought back obvious tears. "We try, but it's like everything we do just makes it worse. We don't agree on _anything._ And we've both been so busy... too busy, I guess, but neither one of us wants to give up what we're doing, which is _of course_ another issue."

Quistis took a moment to sort through this in her head. "He doesn't like that you're in Timber?"

Rinoa laughed, ruefully. "He doesn't like it at all. He doesn't think it's safe, and he hates that—" Her head turned, as if compelled, to the window, its curtains drawn open as if to let in every last scrap of light the sky could produce. "I don't think he understands," she said, her gaze made suddenly soft, open, vulnerable. "He doesn't get how important this is to me. It's more important to be here, in Timber, helping, than it is to keep myself safe." She swallowed, as if struck with a sudden realization. "I guess it probably feels like Timber is more important than him. Which isn't..." She struggled with the words, visibly; eventually she got up and went to stand in front of the window.

Quistis just watched, Rinoa's slender and sad silhouette framed against Timber's backdrop. Angelo made a short friendly sound and padded over to lean her head against Rinoa's leg, and Rinoa's hand came down idly to rest itself on the furry head. Quistis felt awkward, as if she were intruding on some very intimate, private moment of Rinoa's, this too-public communion with her city, her home. She felt exposed, as if at any point Rinoa would turn and demand equal gaping naked transparency from her, as well. _And what would Quistis Trepe fight to defend?_

"We decided to take a break." Rinoa's voice was small again, choked and ugly. "You — you were right, I think; what you said that night. We talked, and we just couldn't reconcile anything while we were together, it hurt so much. So he went to Esthar, and I... came home. I think I was hoping — I wanted time to think about all of this, to try and figure out a way we can make this work."

"You still have time," Quistis said, aiming for comfort; the ugly image of fire blooming across the remains of the library skipped across her mind, and she winced a little.

"There's..." Rinoa shifted her weight, her fingers moving in familiar patterns across Angelo's head. "When it happened, when we talked, at the time — I was really just thinking about our relationship. Me and Squall. We could take a break from each other and come back... better. Stronger. Easier. But..." She bowed her head, guilty gaze falling somewhere at Quistis' feet. "It isn't just about us. I was ignoring the whole Sorceress thing. Like an idiot."

"Rinoa." Quistis stood up, made to cross the room, aborted the gesture halfway; what could she offer than Angelo couldn't? "It isn't your fault," she said instead, hoping she was saying the right thing. "No one knows how this magic works."

"Well, but I _should_ , shouldn't I?" Her voice was bitter. "Looking back, I _knew_ that something wasn't right. It all just felt... _off._ But it was...manageable? And _everything_ felt off, so it was easy to ignore it as just..." She sighed, and Quistis heard tears and rage in it. "And now, I just — I just don't know. I don't know what this break did to the Bond. Maybe it doesn't work anymore."

"What happened with your magic?" She was almost afraid to ask; her mind's-eye again saw Rinoa, tranced and shrieking, her own magic rebounding back and burning her skin and yet casting more, _more,_ that empty look in her eyes as she summoned forth Holy — all in that blink of a moment Quistis had been frozen, before she'd been able to act herself: her mind had recorded it, crystal-clear, and she wondered how long she'd see it in her nightmares. Then she wondered what _Rinoa_ saw in her nightmares. Quistis didn't want to know.

"I tried," Rinoa said, her voice quiet in defeat.

The silence stretched long. Finally Rinoa came away from the window and sat down heavily on the bed next to Quistis, burying her face in her hands. "It just came out of nowhere. Usually I can — call it, or I _choose_ to call it. I... I _allow_ it in. But this time it just... I was gone before I even knew it." She dropped her hands; her face was bleak. "It wasn't even like when _She_ was in my head," she whispered. "Even then... She was controlling me, but I could still _feel_ it; I could feel someone else. This was just... there was nothing else. Nothing except magic. And me. And I wasn't... in control."

Quistis took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. This complicated — well, everything, really — but some of why Squall had assigned her to Rinoa was becoming clear — although _how much of this had Squall anticipated?_ If he'd expected this, if he'd expected anything like this with their Bond, why hadn't he talked to Rinoa? Or put some kind of note in the mission file to _Quistis only,_ if talking to Rinoa was too hard? Or had all of Squall's alleged concerns about Rinoa's safety been strictly material — Galbadian war-machines on the rampage, for example?

"So what do we do?" Rinoa's voice sounded so lost, and Quistis for a brief moment wanted to laugh, bitter and lost herself: _what makes you think_ I _have any idea what to do?_

"Forward plan," she said instead, because she was SeeD and even lost and confused she needed a plan: orders, marching orders, something to cling to. "I... I'm sure you'll figure something out. We'll figure something out," she amended hastily, although she still wasn't sure what she had to offer. "I'll think about it. For now... can I ask you a favor?"

Rinoa's head jerked up. "Of course," she breathed, and it almost bowled Quistis over: trust writ on her face, honest in her eyes.

"If there's fighting," Quistis said slowly, "let me do it. Until you know what will happen. I promise, Rinoa," and her voice had suddenly grown hard with it; "I promise I will keep you safe."

"Oh, I know." Rinoa's voice was wistful, sad, resigned. "I know you will, Quisty."

  


_________________________________

  


It took a few minutes after Quistis left for Rinoa to gather herself together, pulling into her own core all the little bits of self she felt she'd been shattered into. It took a few minutes longer to look into the mirror, because she kept seeing flickers of something out of the corners of her eyes, and she was afraid it was her own fears, manifest in shadows. She was afraid to look at what she was, afraid she'd be different — afraid she _wouldn't_ be different; afraid the face in the mirror would really just continue to not be enough.

So Rinoa changed her clothes, letting her traitorous body move on automatic — although that wasn't fair. It wasn't her body that had turned on her and refused to listen, but her mind; that great quiet lake now calmly lapped at her consciousness, ebbing and flowing beneath the surface of all her other thoughts and dreams and actions. She brushed her hair, hands moving in slow routine. She brushed her teeth. By the time she'd finished lacing her boots, she felt calm enough to glance into the mirror: the calm was less confidence and more just feeling empty, all emotions dull and limp, left in ragged piles on the floor.

Her face looked back at her: _her_ face, not Sorceress; her skin was pale and her eyes looked tired, but she was there and breathing and somehow the tears caught in her throat again at that simple fact.

 _If it hadn't been for Quistis, I'd be dead right now._ By her own hand, and nothing would have helped Timber less, and Squall would come and claim her body knowing the last things they'd said to each other had been—

Rinoa swallowed. And she squared her shoulders, looking herself dead in the eye in the mirror. It made her blush, a little, but she welcomed the awkward feeling, because the color on her face made her look less like a thing of the night, less pale and ethereal. _Let me be real._

"What's done is done," she said aloud; Angelo, in the corner of the room, lifted her head in curious attention. The audience, even the audience of her dog, made it more formal somehow, as if she were delivering a speech no less important than the one she'd tried to give the day before. "No amount of wallowing will change that. So... it's time to just keep going."

She had Quistis, she still had Timber, and she still had herself.

It would have to be enough, for now.

  


________________________________

  


Quistis slipped into the chair at the end of the table carefully — almost apologetically, because she hadn't realized this Timber Owls meeting was waiting on her. She gathered her hands in her lap and met Rinoa's eyes; Rinoa seemed to be waiting for something, and so Quistis gave her an official nod — what, was she in charge of this now, too?

"Damage control," Rinoa began, and she wrote it clearly across the top of the pad of paper in front of her. "That's our topic for today. I don't want to dwell on what happened, right now — I want to figure out how to move forward." Her voice was flat, almost overconfident, as if daring anyone to contradict her. No one did, of course; Quistis' eyes flicked to Watts and then Zone, but neither one looked eager to interrupt their princess. There was a strange tension in the air, and Quistis didn't really like the feeling of it; something unwinding and unraveling, tangling the ties that connected these three friends into something uglier, darker. She noticed no one was meeting anyone else's eyes. Was this normal? Rinoa didn't seem overly concerned — or, well, she did, but not with the meeting itself; as if she were too preoccupied.

"First," she said, and her voice softened. "Zone, how many people were hurt?"

"About a dozen that I heard about." Zone's eyes were on the table, unwilling to look up. "Based on past responses, maybe two dozen. Nothing the clinic can't handle. And nothing serious... worst I saw was a broken leg."

Rinoa's mouth set; she looked unhappy, to Quistis, but merely said, "Thank god. Alright. Here's what I'm thinking. For the next few days, let's get some Owls volunteering at the clinic, you know, lend a helping hand. Maybe the Foxes and the Sigmas will want to help us out too. I'll go myself, probably tomorrow." Her mouth twisted, and she added in a much smaller voice, "And I'll make a donation, anonymously, to make sure they have the funds."

"Rinoa," Zone said, his voice tight and tense. "You know we talked about you using your pocket money to fund—"

"I _said_ it would be anonymous," Rinoa snapped. "I'm not an idiot, Zone."

Quistis was surprised when Zone shut his mouth and looked away rather than retort — it didn't feel right, didn't sit right with her, and she thought maybe it felt too much like Zone was being nice on purpose, a clearer way to state that he thought there was a problem than anything words could have said.

"I want a lot of our attention on these people," Rinoa said firmly. "They were hurt at one of _our_ rallies, and even though we didn't hurt them directly, I still feel responsible." It lay unsaid, between her words, the ugly bloom of Sorceress fire across marble and stone: who _was_ responsible? "I want the Owls to take care of their own, alright?" Her face softened a little, sorrow and worry leaking through. "Zone," she said, her voice very quiet. "Can I put you on this?"

The long tense moment stretched just a bit too far, pulling the air thin between them. Then Zone sighed, and glanced up at Rinoa, and the glower on his face softened into exhaustion and remorse. "Of course," he said, and the apology was stiff but there. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you." Rinoa smiled at him for a second before scribbling something down on her pad, the thin scratching of the pencil etching lines in the air. "Okay, second. Watts, you're intelligence. We _need_ a way we can tie this back to Galbadia. Please tell me you have one."

Watts swallowed, the sound filling the room, and he nervously tried to stack the mess of papers in front of him; they slid everywhere, a few falling into Quistis' lap or past her onto the floor. "Sorry," Watts moaned as they all grabbed for them, piling a haphazard mess in the middle of the table.

"Sorry," Watts repeated once his information had been gathered, and Quistis marked that he wasn't talking about the papers this time. "But without that machine, we have no chance of directly tracing it. Some of the, um, parts were left, sir. I'm trying to trace them instead."

"That contraption was obviously of Galbadian build," Quistis blurted, and then as all three sets of eyes turned to her she belatedly realized what Watts had meant: they didn't have the machine's ruins because of _her,_ because of her Degenerator, and it was _her fault_ that they couldn't trace it back to Galbadia with hard evidence. She swallowed, suddenly sick — and _angry;_ none of _them_ had done anything to try to stop it (except, of course, Rinoa) and yet suddenly it was _her fault_ for saving the day? "Sorry," she said, feeling strangely indignant with it; she'd been hired to _keep Rinoa safe,_ not to tie Galbadia and Timber together. "But Garden has extensive files on Galbadia's X-ATM series of combat weaponry. That thing was pretty obviously the next generation. Nowhere else in the world makes anything quite like it."

 _"Really,"_ Rinoa breathed. "Can you — is that confidential? Can you _get_ me a report? Can you — would you testify to that?"

Her brain whirling, Quistis stammered, "Well — yes — no, I mean — but..."

"Rinoa." Zone's voice cut across her thoughts, flat and angry. "Just — I'm not saying this is a bad idea, okay, I want to pin Galbadia for this bullshit as much as you do. But just think about it. Somebody from Garden who has obviously been hired to protect you, coming out of the woodwork and saying _yeah, sure, it's Galbadian!_ isn't going to mean a lot to your average Timber resident. I believe you, Quistis, but you're not _from_ Timber." The glower appeared on his face again. "People already disbelieve the shit they see every day, because they want to live in denial. It won't even be _hard_ for them to ignore you."

"Still," Rinoa said, and her voice was _hot,_ lit with something from within, that fire that glowed inside Rinoa and occasionally reared its head with force. "It _is_ worth looking into. Watts, as part of your investigation, I suggest you send a quick note to Garden's Public Relations asking if they could help identify a military object based on civilian descriptions. See if _we_ can get the proof. I'll put Quistis on it later, if we can't."

From there the conversation devolved into a discussion on what to do with the now-even-more-ruined ruins of the library; Quistis listened with only half of her attention. The remainder of her concentration was turned firmly inward, stirring in guilt and an almost resentful pride. What was she even _doing_ here? She had stepped in and saved Rinoa, just like she'd been ordered to — but if she'd taken a second of thought (admittedly, it was hard to think concretely in her Limit Break; the Blue Magic was a wild force, and whisper-growled constantly, demanding much of her attention and control) she might have done something else, disabled the X-ATM386, left some kind of evidence. In saving Rinoa, she had apparently caused _more_ trouble — part of her brain shouted that this was a _most unfair_ analysis, as Rinoa-dead or Rinoa-wounded would certainly be worse than an unidentified machine. But Quistis just couldn't turn off the rest of her brain, the part telling her she wasn't good enough, she hadn't done enough; it echoed, the apologetic accusation in Watts' voice, and she'd screwed it up: she'd done it wrong, _again._

  


________________________________

  


She was afraid to sleep, this fear a dull ebbing terror lodged somewhere below her heart; even when she tried to tell herself (in Quistis' voice, of course) that rest would help keep her strength up, help her get through this, that she needed to sleep, to relax... Rinoa found the platitudes so obviously transparent, the dark-light of her terror shining right through them, tearing their paper-weight to shreds. Her fingers clutched and tangled in the sheets; her legs huddled in the covers, then kicked them off. Her breath filled the room, hesitant echoes stacking up in the corners atop Angelo's soft snoring; the sound of her dog was an anchor in the dim darkness of night. The only anchor she had left, apparently, and it filled her lungs with despair, breath thick with it, and she couldn't help but _miss him_ even as it made her angry. She tugged the top sheet back across herself at an awkward angle, yanking it into place.

All of this made her so _angry._ She was mad at herself, for being so careless — but when could she and Squall have taken time for training? Who would train them? _Cid and Edea seem to know what they're doing._ But Rinoa had talked to Edea, one faltering stumbling conversation soon after the war had ended; she'd still been high on the romanticism of it all, Sorceress and Knight, ancient archetypes reborn in their skins: who wouldn't be? _It isn't exactly like that,_ Edea had said, soft and slow. _Happily ever after doesn't cover all of it._ And Rinoa had been convinced they'd had all the time in the world, because it was supposed to _work._

But no, that wasn't all of it: Rinoa had _trusted_ the damn magic. Something this strong, this powerful — something able to pull her entire consciousness underneath the dark roiling surface of so many lives, so many women — something thick enough to connect her to Squall so tightly she could feel his thoughts, feel his heart beat inside her own — shouldn't something that cosmic be strong enough to make itself _work?_ Shouldn't a power that depended on a link between two people be working to keep those people together? She felt strangely, oddly, unexpectedly betrayed by it, by the logic of it all. It just plain wasn't _fair_.

She rolled over, huffing, bare feet kicking out of the sheets again; the air had a chill to it and Rinoa liked the way it pricked at her toes, thrilling her body with a very real sense of physicality, _contact_ with a world she badly wanted to be in at the moment. Squall would've slept through her tossing and then hissed in bald-faced anger when she tried to tuck her cold feet against him; it had always made him so angry: _God, Rinoa, can't you wear socks? I am trying to sleep here._ She wiggled her toes in the air and felt towards the Bond, wondering whether her touch would feel like cold feet to Squall now, whether he would angrily roll over and hunch his shoulders against her magic. The thought made her sad, her heart tugging downwards into her stomach.

She didn't think about it too long, because the Bond was still buzzing with static, waving tendrils of it occasionally brushing against her and she felt the threat in it, distant but not at all lightened: merely assuaged, or distracted, a power biding its time.

The thoughts led her to Quistis — but maybe not surprisingly, because she was stealing from Quistis the sense of stability she had wanted from Squall. It probably wasn't fair, because Quistis had been _assigned_ to her side — Quistis Trepe being a full-fledged, card-carrying, rule-following devotee of the SeeD Handbook — but Rinoa was taking snatches of friendship, smiles and glances and touches when she could get them. It was better than thinking about this as just a mission, about Quistis as a bodyguard; she wanted — _Hyne,_ she wanted someone to fill the ragged edges of the hole this break had torn into her, and Quistis was tall and competent and lovely and so fucking fierce, and Rinoa wanted to bask in that light for as long as she could; she wanted to wrap herself around Quistis, sleep herself whole beneath Quisty's watch.

But that wasn't fair, and none of this was fair: that a power so terrible could be so dependent, that a link so strong could dissolve so quickly; that someone like her could lie in bed, exhausted to the ends of her nerves and unable to sleep; that her dreams could merge with her nightmares until it all became one terrifying shade of black.

Rinoa tucked her feet back under the covers and rolled over to her other side, resolved to stare at the wall for as long as it took — and still unsure of what she was so tentatively waiting for.

  


________________________________

  


"E-excuse me, sir?" Watts had emerged from the strange cubby-hole he kept under the stairs, a room always hot with electronics and whirring, humming, sounding almost alive in a way that greatly unnerved Quistis (she admired computers, and the things Selphie could do with a control panel filled her with both awe and fear, but she didn't know very much about the intricate system of data gathering and analysis Watts seemed to live and breathe _with,_ as if they were both part of one giant creature). "Do you have a moment?"

Rinoa stopped, and turned, and the welcoming smile slipped from her lips in a way that made Quistis' stomach plummet, the tug of dread too much like gravity. "Watts," Rinoa said. "What is it?"

"I—" His sharp gaze went from Rinoa to Quistis, and then back again. "I have something to report. To both of you."

Rinoa glanced around, and Quistis automatically did too — trying to suppress the sudden shiver that came over her, and the question of whether Rinoa's safe haven was still safe. "Here," Rinoa decided, leading them both down a little-used hallway and opening the door at the end — a supply closet. Quistis breathed. It smelled of paper and cleaning supplies, the odd juxtaposition of organics and chemicals unsettling her stomach more.

Rinoa sat down on a stack of paper boxes and looked up. Her face was drawn. "Watts, you look like you've seen a ghost. What the hell is going on?"

Watts swallowed and shut the door; he sat down himself on an upturned crate. Quistis remained standing, realizing too late to move that she'd placed herself between the door and Rinoa; it had been automatic, a subconscious choice, but she found it sat awkward and stale in the air, as if she were stating for the record she didn't even trust the Owls.

"I found something." Watts was pitching his voice low and Quistis noticed how here, in the plain absurd secrecy of this supply closet, surrounded by lemon-scented sink cleanser and faced only by Rinoa herself _(because I don't count_ ) _,_ his usual formal nervousness had translated into an almost scorching intensity. "In one of our logs. We should have — we should have seen it sooner, but things just went to shit so fast, I'm sure not everyone was looking to the best of their ability. Our mistake, and you can bet I'll figure out how it happened and why, but for now..." He shook his head. "That attack wasn't just on _us,_ Rin. It was on _you._ "

"On me?" Her echo sounded fake, as if saying, _you can't be serious_. "But Watts, it... it happened while I was in Garden. Did they not know?"

"That first attack was a dud," Watts began, and Rinoa huffed.

"A fairly effective _dud_ if you ask me," she muttered.

Watts shook his head. "The purpose of the first attack was just to distract us while they planted the X-A...whatever..." with a glance at Quistis that somehow conveyed sarcastic respect; "the thing. They had it in the sewer, and it was designed to be set off when you were around."

Rinoa's face was going white, even as she shook her head in a denial so faint Quistis could almost hear it aloud. "How would they know? It's not like I — emit some kind of — aura, that would set it off—"

"No," Watts said flatly, "you don't."

This silence was _ugly_ , and thick, and Quistis couldn't tear her eyes from the expressions flickering across Rinoa's face: fear, anger, a righteous selfish-selfless disbelief and — back to fear again, constant in the cycle, underlying her every thought.

"Someone here tipped them off," Rinoa breathed.

Watts didn't say anything. It was obvious in the set of his mouth what he thought, the reluctant light in his eyes, and Quistis frowned at it. She felt very underinformed; it all sat _wrong_ with her, Rinoa's brilliantly determined drive ending in this strange dark muddle that had left the Timber Owls alone and lost, with Timber itself turning against them.

And then Rinoa's eyes turned to her — and Watts turned also, his face closing down somewhat, concern partially replaced with reserve. Rinoa looked up at her, and Quistis wanted to laugh, so _very very unprepared,_ because she hadn't known what to read for this, what to study, and this was the kind of test she _always failed._

"Quistis," Rinoa said, and Quistis found herself oddly proud to only hear a small waver in Rinoa's voice. "What do you think we should do?"

Quistis found herself struck sullen for a moment, wondering why in the hell _she_ was the one making decisions in _Rinoa's_ city, with Rinoa's people, on Rinoa's mission — but then she thought of the fire again and she swallowed, feeling guilty, her stomach sinking like a stone as she wondered whether Rinoa even _trusted_ her own judgment. _I don't know,_ Quistis wanted to say, but that answer was so blatantly unacceptable for this tangled mess they were all lost in — _so think about it like a SeeD._

Quistis sat down on a cardboard box and re-sorted it in her mind: could she frame this like a tactical strike, a leak of intelligence, a military maneuver? Or even like a homework assignment _(failed Instructor_ ), some intermediate hold until Rinoa came up with a real solution _?_ "Watts," she said, the words jumping from her throat before her brain was really ready for them. "Look into this some more. Find out all you can. If you were monitoring things that day, if you have some kind of signal record, see if you can trace it to figure out how the X-ATM386 was set off. I'll email Xu again — she might be able to pull the specs on the X-ATM line for me without too much paperwork hassle and red tape."

"Yes, sir!" Watts gave her a single confident nod, and Quistis read shades of something else in it: gratitude? Acknowledgment? "I'll get right on it."

"And me?" Rinoa's voice was so quiet, and it felt all wrong. _You're a liability,_ Quistis almost said, but that was too much a SeeD thing; Rinoa would take that simple fact as a personal criticism, wounding and self-destroying. She couldn't treat all of this like a military operation, because it was still civilian-run — even with his best equipment Watts was still just a guy who liked computers, and Zone was just another guy who worked out some and made good speeches, and Rinoa was just — well. Rinoa wasn't _just anything_ anymore.

"You need to just keep doing what you would normally do," Quistis said, "but _safer._ If you change things up suddenly, the Galbadians that are watching you—" _and we now know they're watching you, Rinoa,_ "—will know something's up. They'll grow suspicious." _And I don't think you can fend off another attack, yet._ "But you need to be careful, too. Just — hang in there."

Rinoa nodded, too sad and anxious and relieved to even argue, and Quistis wanted to scream: how had she suddenly been put in charge of this? Why was she suddenly making the decisions?

  


________________________________

  


Rinoa flickered back into consciousness slowly. Something soft was stroking her hair, and she was surprisingly warm and quiet and comfortable, as if someone had taken all the weight off her shoulders and allowed her to drift into clouds and cotton for a little while. "...mmkay, Quisty," she mumbled, trying to curl up tighter into a ball, tucking this safe feeling of warmth and soft security close to her core, storing it behind her heart: letting it sink into herself, so that the shock wasn't so toxic when she opened her eyes.

"C'mon, Princess." It wasn't Quistis; Zone's voice was amused, and it must have been his fingers in her hair; Rinoa's surprise faded into a soft smile as she tentatively pried her eyes open against her own will. How many times had she woken up like this before, herself curled up on the couch in utter exhaustion, Zone coming in from patrols and waking her? Sitting beside each other on this threadbare couch, wordless, sharing the hopeless despair of an empty late night, the hour at which words took on two or three meanings, such that conversation was slow and heavy with weary weight? Her eyes blinked open and Rinoa sat up. She sheepishly ran a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ears, sparing a glance at Zone through its curtain.

She and Zone had always had an understanding, with its own limits but certainly deeper than friendship, and Rinoa had occasionally wondered at the _what-ifs_ between them: if only she hadn't — but then her brain walked the time-path backwards: if she hadn't been with Squall, if she hadn't fought Ultimecia, if she hadn't become Sorceress, if she hadn't gotten herself caught up in things; if she hadn't hired SeeD, if she hadn't met Seifer, if she hadn't... eventually the path wound so far back into her memories that it became, _if she hadn't been Rinoa Heartilly,_ and maybe it was the kind of thing Ellone would dwell on with timeweaving, dreamweaving, but Rinoa wasn't sure she could think on it. Rinoa chose to live (mostly) in the present.

Zone shook his head in fond exasperation. He looked tired; he often did late patrols, joking about being the Night Owl, but the truth was he was the best at weaseling details out of rogue bartenders, or helping drunk teenagers find their way home: Zone's love for Timber surfaced itself in connection and service, both, and Rinoa loved him for it even as she feared he'd one day run himself too thin. _Look who's talking;_ she herself had fallen asleep on the couch, the notes for the new speech she was planning strewn about the floor now. Zone seemed to echo her thoughts, a comfortable closeness, as he commented, "You'd think by now you'd have learned to go to bed."

"What time is it?" Her voice was still full of sleep, and she shook her head a little, trying to shed the cobwebs in her eyes.

"Late." Zone flashed a friendly grin; his smiles lit his face, all the more now these days because he hadn't smiled as much since it all happened. His eyes crinkled with fondness. "Or early, I guess. What are you counting from?"

The door opened, and Watts slipped in. The glance he shot Zone was strange, almost apologetic; Rinoa felt her consciousness begin to trickle done her spine, suddenly awake and aware to the undercurrents in the room. Watts smiled at her; "Good morning, princess," and it was a friendly jibe, his usual teasing, and she suddenly missed late nights painting train models and early-morning naps in the corner and oh, when had things become so complicated?

As Watts headed for the armchair his foot caught on one of the scattered pages of her speech; he picked it up, glanced at it, and recognized her handwriting. "Sorry. Is this yours?"

"I—" The words were catching in her throat, suddenly shy and tentative. "I've been working on another speech. I still want to say something about the library; I think there's a lot we need to address, and I think it needs to be said sooner rather than later."

Zone and Watts exchanged a glance that almost prickled in the air, charged with all kinds of potential between them, and Rinoa sat up straighter because she was missing something. Watts tilted his head, just slightly, in obvious deference, and Zone took a long deep breath and turned to her.

"Rinoa." His voice sounded braced, and Rinoa felt her heart skip a beat in sudden tense fear. "Look, we know you're trying to help — we wouldn't be here without you, but — another speech? I — we — we _both_ think," Zone said, with a bit of an edge, and maybe Watts squirmed a little uncomfortably at it or maybe she just imagined it, "that you need to... take a little break."

"A break." The words ghosted out of her mouth and all she could think of was Squall — her and Squall, and their break, and it had worked out _so well already:_ her heart torn into pieces and still bleeding, her magic broken loose itself, free and wild like an animal stalking her in the night; snatches of sleep on the couch and what to show for it. "What, are you kicking me out? Should I go back to Garden?" The words were barbed, and she knew she was lashing out with her own pain, but she couldn't help herself.

"God, no!" Zone rolled his eyes. "You always make things so—" He swallowed it, and this was new for Zone, this ability to check himself, to catch ugly words in his throat. Rinoa wasn't sure whether she liked it; it had been easy to tell what Zone was thinking because he'd always blurted it out of his mouth. This new safety valve, the way he could quench these thoughts behind a screen: it was just _different,_ and she hated that she was gone so much things were changing without her.

"Just give it a little time," Zone said finally. "Rinoa, Princess, things are _different_ here," and it was uncanny the way his words were echoing everything in her head and her heart. "I know you're trying to help. But look at you. You're stressed out about _something._ " His pointed look caught her exhaustion, the way she was nabbing hours on the couch at every given chance. "I don't know what it is," Zone continued, his voice softening. "And I don't really need to know. But whatever's got you strung out isn't helping us."

Rinoa bit her lip and glanced at Watts. He shifted under her scrutiny, but eventually nodded. "The word on the street is that people are worried, Rin, and not just about Galbadia. They—they talk about you, and about the Sorceress, and it just isn't a good time. Not right now."

The remains of Rinoa's heart twisted themselves into knots, and how was she just now still finding out what she could lose? To hear this from Zone was bad enough, but Watts — kind, gentle Watts, who called Quistis _sir_ out of polite habit and spent most of his time with computer screens? "I just thought—"

But here it was, finally laid out in the spaces between the three of them, this strange uneven triangle. They'd talked of her powers exactly once before: when she'd come to the Owls with her decision to announce she was a Sorceress. It had been almost eerily like this, the three of them up late with nothing but sleepless exhaustion, as Rinoa tried to haltingly explain to two men who had never even touched paramagic before what had happened to her, what it meant to be carrying around this magic: a bevy of witches just beneath the surface of her soul, the mantle of Sorceress tied tight around her neck for good or evil. She wasn't sure they had understood and she knew they didn't now; the spectre of her powers had put a space between them, a small but growing chasm they could never cross. Even now, they wouldn't ask her what had happened at the library; Rinoa wasn't even sure they realized things had gone _wrong_.

"Princess," Zone said, and it _hurt_ that he was still using her nickname, because it wasn't like before and it never would be and she was really tired of this sinking feeling: if she sank anymore she'd be underground, lost to the sunlight and the stars and the scent of breezes through dried wood. "We need you, Rinoa, and we know that. You know that. But we need you — we need you to be alright. Just... lie low for a bit, okay, and let us do the work for a day or two."

Her breath caught like a sob, and she was _not going to cry over this,_ and she swallowed all of it down. Her notes strewn across the floor looked forlorn now, silly, the tiny meager insignificant efforts of a girl who thought maybe she could turn the Sorceress on and off like a faucet. "Whatever you say," she said, her voice obviously miserable, its tone grating at her own nerves.

Zone rested a hand on her knee. "Hey," he said, and his mouth quirked in an attempt at a smile. "Just a couple days, alright? Give us some time to do some work and we'll give you something to make a _real_ speech about. You're still our best speech-maker, Rin. Watts couldn't give a talk to a paper bag, _sir."_

"And poor Zone's stomach," Watts shot back, grinning. "He might explode. Better that it's you."

She stood up, because the casual banter was trying to make things right again, trying to make it okay, and at this moment nothing was fitting together: she was a collection of pieces, defined by the _breaks_ in her life more than the things, living only in the spaces in-between what used to matter.

"I'm going to — going to go to bed."

By the time she got there her eyes were dry, her throat clear, her body already dully accepting the loss of one more thing like everything else that drowned in her powers and never got away.

  


________________________________

  


The morning light seemed thin and tepid as Quistis stepped into the little alley-yard behind the house; Timber seemed full of these charming security hazards, smaller streets tucked behind houses tucked behind smaller streets, a nested series of cobblestone and ambush points. The sparse pale light gave the little space a soothing washed-out feeling, though, that made Quistis's skin sit a little easier, like a long exhale; she needed something like that right now, to settle the tilted tension that had been buzzing through Timber's air, in her gut.

It felt odd, as she settled into the routine of her morning exercises, that she was picking up on the emotional climate of the place — and that another facet of Timber was soothing the jagged edges that climate produced in her, reciprocal forces she shouldn't have been affected by in the first place. She always _noted_ the political and social climate of a place; it was a standard part of any assessment, right along with military strength and defensibility of the terrain. But it had never slinked under her skin like this, crossed the threshold from things she knew and catalogued to things that _changed_ her. This wasn't _her_ place; Timber didn't belong to her and the thought of _her_ belonging to Timber, even a little, unsettled her. _Home_ was complicated and Quistis preferred hers where everything was clearly defined and documented, where she had a place and purpose that she understood.

But the soft uninsistent sunshine still felt good on her skin, and she focused on that as she slid through her training regime. The routine calmed her thoughts, set them in order; woke her body up and settled the itch for physical activity. The morning was slow and quiet; she'd missed Zone and Watts — which was unusual enough for her to note but not to worry — and Rinoa was still in her room. Sleeping, Quistis hoped; she needed it.

Everything here had been too frantic and confused for her to indulge in longer morning practices. This calmer morning made her fingers itch to unhitch her whip and get a good long session in now that her unarmed combat drills were almost done — but the morning was so thin and quiet, here in this little back street; the faint chirp of birds stitched the air, the low rustle of trees, and only the distant sounds of industry and waking. Quistis thought of the nervy tension of the atmosphere, and the pistol-crack of her whip, and with a purely internal sigh slid through the last few mock-blows of her training and went back inside. The incomplete feeling lingered in her hands — and, deeper and more distant, the rumbling buzz of her Guardians, also restless, echoing her unsteady unease.

She had showered and dressed again in her uniform when she came into the common room to find Watts there, stuffing a sandwich into his mouth with one hand while he shuffled through papers with the other — he saw her and froze, which was _ridiculous_ , chafing against Quistis's general sense of misplaced, misaligned discontent: _this is your house, not mine! Stop acting like I've caught you doing something terrible_ — and then he dropped the papers. Quistis suppressed an uncharitable roll of her eyes; it wouldn't help, not with Watts. Instead she knelt down to help — he had at least managed to not drop the sandwich, which also served to muffle whatever apologetic mumbling he was attempting. He'd chewed and swallowed by the time they had everything back together; he straightened and stood up, too quickly, with an instinctive, "Thank you, sir."

Quistis unbent, level with him again. "It's all right." And then her instincts kicked her, sharp and fast, knitting it together: Watts and Zone up early and already out, Rinoa hiding in her room, the thick tension and Watts' exaggerated awkwardness. Her brows snapped together. She waved a hand at the papers and caught Watts' eye, and asked, her voice going clipped: "Anything I need to know about?"

Watts swallowed — and sighed, and Quistis's small flare of triumph at spotting the connections mixed sourly with — everything else, knowing the news couldn't be good. She felt Timber's unease settling into _her_ , along with the near-constant worry over Rinoa and confusion over her own place here.

"Yeah," Watts said, his shoulders slumping. "Yeah. It is. We talked last night — Zone and me and — and Rin. There's nothing concrete, sir, but we thought... we thought it might be best if she lay low for a bit."

Quistis blew out her breath, like a pressure valve on the thoughts suddenly swarming her brain — a thick clenching of her heart, for Rinoa, the blankness of her closed door suddenly taking on a new light, and wondering just what kind of _talk_ that had been last night as a catalogue of the tensions and small ugly moments and strained looks between her and Zone presented itself to her mind; and a hot sweep of irritation — _didn't I say no sudden changes in routine?_ — except even that was smothered by Timber's atmosphere, by Quistis' admission that she knew less about the place than any of the Owls did, that her advice could have been wrong and that Watts and Zone were most likely right and she was so _tired_ of feeling so out-of-place and out of her depth here.

"All right," she said at last. "Do you know for how long?"

"No, sir. We're keepin' an ear out, both of us." His voice sounded flat — not the uninviting flatness of hostility but the dead featurelessness of exhaustion and strain; _what are we all playing at here, anyway?_ It was no comfort to think that Watts and Zone could be just as overwhelmed by the situation.

"Right. Well. Thank you," she said, "for telling me. And let know if you hear anything — _anything_ —" her voice hardened, steeled by her frustration and by the bright hard spark of determination to at least do the job she _knew_ well— "that could be substantial enough that I need to know it."

"Yes, sir," he replied — and then, less automatically and sounding almost hurt: "Of course."

 _Dammit_. Quistis kicked herself. "I'm— I'm sorry," she managed. "I know we all care about her. I know you'll try, for her," and she winced inside, because didn't _that_ sound nice and patronizing, _I know you're trying,_ the kind of ‘encouragement' that had always made Quistis wither inside with discouraged failure — but Watts seemed to straighten a little from his hunch, a shy smile flickering across his face, startling Quistis a little at how it changed his face. It brought into stark contrast how _strained_ he was, because she'd seen him like this before, long ago when the Owls dealt in mundane Presidential kidnappings, not the fallout of ancient magics.

"Thank you, sir. And— I'm glad," he blurted, "that you're here for her. Sir."

Quistis blinked. There had been something like admiration in his voice — and something else, something almost sly, an upward edge to his tone and lips — _what?_ But he was already bobbing in some kind of abbreviated bow-salute and scurrying out of the house, clutching his papers, leaving her alone in the middle of the common room.

 _That was — interesting._ She ran through what she'd learned — more vague rumblings about Rinoa, Timber growing even tenser. Nothing new on the attack. Nothing _concrete_ , dammit. And Rinoa, her charge — the unsettling news about her magic and the even less definable but no less worrying way she was retreating into herself, the bruised smudges of exhaustion under her eyes, the way her brightness was dimmed and shut behind a door.

 _Should I call Squall?_ She imagined trying to report this: _client is feeling depressed, sir; recommended course of action?_ She almost laughed, imagining Squall on the other end of _that_ conversation, an entirely dark humour that did nothing to lighten her mood. _I hate this_.

She had nothing to _report_ , if plenty to say; the useless feeling chafed at her and the resounding silence from Rinoa's room seemed to press down against her through the ceiling. Her duty had come to a standstill: _remain alert and await further information and instructions_. But she was more than that ( _right?_ ); she was a friend, if a hopelessly incompetent one. She didn't know what to do about _that_ , either — should she try and draw Rinoa out of her room? Give her space? Quistis knew what option _she_ would have preferred, but that didn't help her frozen inaction here, hesitant to move because doing _anything_ might make it worse. She felt almost — underwater, pressure everywhere on her skin, and her blue magic prodded her, hissing under her surface, responding to her stress.

 _This is ridiculous_.

She would find something to do with this. She didn't know the political landscape of Timber well enough to try and navigate it on her own; that path to protecting Rinoa was closed to her — for now; she made a mental note to follow up with Xu on the Galbadian machine. And while Rinoa — Rinoa's magic, Rinoa's problems, Rinoa's _feelings_ — was at least as terrifying a terrain, that territory was at least not barred to her. Quistis marched upstairs, to email Xu from the console and to think: to plan her path forward.

  


________________________________

  


The hours seemed hollow, torpid and heavy with emptiness, dragging by at the precise speed of the sunshine creeping across her floor and retreating again. This awareness of _time_ reminded Rinoa unnervingly of Ellone; made her throat-dry aware of the disturbed depths inside her and scared to even _think_ that she might want the time to pass by faster because _what if she could make it happen_ by accident? It infuriated and terrified her, that she was afraid to live inside her own skin, both feelings settling inside her like stones in the still silence of inaction.

The _lost_ feeling that had fogged around her the past week had solidified into something near tangible, occupying all the spaces of her room; she had never felt so bound to a place and so disoriented at once, so firmly anchored into immobility. It reminded her too much of being a kid, of all her empty little rebellions and the overwhelming suffocation of Caraway, feeling so _useless_.

It didn't help to think that Zone was right; she knew he probably was. She was too aware, now, of all the advice she hadn't followed — Squall, telling her to stay away, to be safe, warning her — and it made her angry and helpless at once; it was like every feeling came with a counter-feeling attached and none of them balanced out, just tipped her more sharply in different directions. Her earlier resolve to keep moving forward seemed childish, now — and yet she couldn't think of anything else to do. She had slept late that morning, and woken slow and sticky, feeling drained rather than rested. The day limped by; she had tried to work on more speeches — maybe she could give them to Zone, or maybe for herself, once she could give them again — but the words got stuck and muddled in her brain, her fingers feeling clumsy against the pencil, the exercise seeming so pointless; the empty pages had stared at her almost mockingly and what words she'd managed to scribble down looked so infantile and meaningless.

She scratched out another such attempt and slumped on the bed. Angelo came to snuffle at her hand, hanging limply off the edge of the mattress.

Rinoa rolled over, to look at Angelo; her fur was lit by the warm tones of approaching afternoon. "You need a walk, girl," she sighed — then bit her lip: should she go out?

The thought froze her: _she was afraid to walk her dog_. It was ridiculous and true and terrifying and it shot at something inside her, a bedrock she could never have imagined shifting beneath her: Timber was her _home_. Anger flared inside her, again — _I can walk my damn dog in my own city; this couldn't be what Zone and Watts meant me to do_ — and then uncertainty tipped her the other way, thoughts a-tumble — was she just being stubborn? She _hated_ being so aware of herself, thinking over everything before she could move; it made her feel trapped in her own mind and it was _not a place she wanted to be_ , not with the company she'd be keeping in there, dark roils and curls and ancient things that went on forever, down and down.

And she remembered Quistis, telling her to keep doing what she normally did, to not change things up. Rinoa worried at the lip still caught between her teeth, then hopped up off the bed and signaled Angelo to follow her.

Quistis' door was partially open; Rinoa hesitated, and knocked on the frame. She heard Quistis get up from the console. "Yes," she asked, coming to the door; her face seemed abstracted, and then snapped into _sharp_ focus on Rinoa. Rinoa swallowed the breath that almost gasped out of her. "Um. I— Angelo needs a walk," she blurted. "I'm not sure if I should..." She stumbled to a halt, not sure how much Quistis already knew and hating the thought of having to explain; hating the way the words tripped her — wasn't she supposed to be the public speaker here?

Quistis' face softened, and Rinoa realized she looked _worried_ ; it made a small warmth flare in her — and bitterness, too. "I heard," Quistis said, softly. "Watts told me." Quistis looked down at Angelo; Angelo returned her regard with solemn dog eyes and a goofy dog grin. "I think we'll be okay with a short walk. Everyone knows you walk her, right? It would look strange if you suddenly stopped, or had someone else do it for you." Her voice was gentle and low, like she was talking to an anxious student.

Rinoa breathed out sour relief. "Okay. Can we go now?" She sounded like a kid to her own ears, all her restlessness channeled into words, bursting out of her, so little control _again_.

"Sure," Quistis said, with a small smile — more sad than anything else, but it still made Rinoa's mouth twitch up in return, just to see how it softened Quistis' face.

Rinoa nodded and started down the hall; Quistis closed her door and fell in behind her.

Stepping out of the house felt painfully _different_ , an action she'd done so thoughtlessly so many times before suddenly sticky with awareness; she felt the air close around her like suffocating, like a target between her shoulderblades and she felt the power stir inside her, distant and dangerous and she swallowed down sharp-edged panic, breathed and breathed, _no_. Breathed for calm, and thought of Quistis at her back — _I'm safe, I'm safe, go away_ — and a spill of steadiness seemed to trickle towards her ( _the Bond? but...)_

"Are you all right?" and Quistis' touch, light on her arm. Rinoa blinked back to herself to see Quistis' concerned face, both of them standing by the threshold and Angelo anxious beside them.

Quistis' fingers were warm against her skin, and her eyes were pale and clear in the afternoon light and something inside Rinoa settled and, "Yeah," she said, _so grateful_ that it was true, for just that moment.

Quistis held her eyes for a second, then nodded and dropped her hand; something distant and deep stirred at this loss of contact and Rinoa was unsteady again. It brought — everything, everything, too forcefully to mind, like a punch to her gut: why she couldn't step out into Timber without feeling it on her skin anymore, why she took the back way as she numbly started Angelo's quick walk, where she was less likely to run into people. _I can't do this_ , she thought. And, even more miserably, _I can't do this to everyone_ — she couldn't keep being a burden, couldn't afford to be so out-of-control right now.

She wanted to talk to Quistis, to _someone_ , but what could she say? She didn't understand any of this, and Quistis seemed distracted and thoughtful under the habitual alertness of an on-duty SeeD. Rinoa finished Angelo's walk quickly, guilty all around for taking Quistis away from whatever she'd been working on and feeling bad for not giving Angelo more time. When they got back to the house, the thought of going back up to her room was agonizing; she hesitated by the couch. "I'll — I'll be down here, okay?"

Quistis gave her an unreadable look — it reminded her of Squall and that _hurt_ — then nodded, tilted her head to the side. "All right." A pause bubbled up between them, stretching out unevenly — did Quistis want to say something? A confused mass of thoughts and wants popped to the surface of Rinoa's mind — _please don't go; I just want to be alone;_ some deeper and darker want — but then Quistis turned around, the motion oddly lacking her usual grace, and went back upstairs.

Rinoa sank onto the couch, feeling empty— feeling _emptied_. Everything seemed to be leaking out of her all over the place, or falling through her fingers — she couldn't help with Timber; she couldn't control herself; she felt the magic murmuring inside her at odd moments, latching onto her thoughts. It seemed to breathe through her sometimes and it scared her and she hated it; it felt dangerous and desperate and her thoughts spiraled in on themselves again, retreading: she couldn't afford this right now, _Timber_ couldn't afford this right now.

Angelo leaned her head against Rinoa's knee, and Rinoa buried her fingers behind Angelo's ears, looked into her anxious brown eyes.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered.

Angelo gave a little whine, and butted her head up into Rinoa's hands; it was comfort and it wasn't enough.

  


________________________________

  


She found Rinoa sitting on the roof of the building, watching the sun approach the horizon. The clouds were spotted with gold, tinted rose, and Quistis stopped for a moment at the sight of it — and the peaceful look on Rinoa's face, the first she'd seen on her friend in what seemed to be a _terribly_ long time. Careful to not be too loud, afraid of disturbing Rinoa's delicate reverence, Quistis walked across the roof and sat down beside her. There was silence. Quistis looked out over the buildings of Timber — the train station, there, soft billows of smoke rising to meet their cousin-clouds in the sky.

"I don't know why anyone would want to destroy this," Rinoa said finally, and in her voice was a wistful sadness.

"Rinoa, look," Quistis said, before she could let the quiet peace of the moment steal her nerves. "I've had an idea."

Rinoa turned to look at her, warm eyes immediately crinkling in interest. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her cheek upon her own hand. "An idea?"

"About your magic." Quistis swallowed her expectation of awkwardness, and waited, but Rinoa just blinked a little, and gave her a sad smile.

"I..." Quistis looked back out over Timber, noting the way the shadows fell warm-black into the alleyways; unable to look at Rinoa's tentative face, her almost hopeless mien. "I've been thinking about your magic, about the way you use your Limit Break. And I've been thinking... about my own magic." The words fell like bell-chimes, deep and dark and warm, things Quistis rarely spoke of. "When I was training to use my Blue Magic, I had to learn to use it completely differently from the para-magic I'd trained with. And it was _hard,_ but in the end it was the only way I could control the Blue spells enough for them to be useful."

She threw Rinoa a sideways glance. "I had a couple mishaps with it while I was learning, too."

Rinoa sat up, slowly, a strangely intense look growing on her face. "Do you think my magic works like yours?"

"I don't know," Quistis admitted. "But... I don't think it works like para-magic, either." She took a long deep breath, hissed it out slowly. "You, me, Squall — all of us. We've been coming at it the wrong way — treating it like Junctioned magic works to a point, but I think you need to try something different in the long run."

Rinoa sighed, too, a long slow exhale. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know a lot about your magic, Rinoa." And here it was, laying this all on the table, and why was she suddenly nervous, her palms sweating with it, like she was back to a cadet, handing in a report? "But I do know a lot about teaching, and I know a bit about helping students develop unusual gifts." A deep breath. "That is... if you're willing to work with me a little." There were plenty of reasons Rinoa wouldn't want to — privacy, embarrassment, Squall; the fact that in many ways Quistis was a failed Instructor anyway...

But Rinoa's face lit up, fiery with hope and gratitude, and her smile was small and triumphant and expectant and Quistis _felt_ something change between them as she reached over to take Quistis' hand; _"Yes,"_ Rinoa breathed, and she squeezed Quistis' hand in an odd parody of support. _Trust,_ Quistis thought, suddenly and painfully thankful for Rinoa's trust in her, Rinoa's outreaching of friendship and connection, the way she could never keep anything close to her, the way she shared all of herself with the world. She gave Rinoa's fingers an answering squeeze, trying to say: _I'll do what I can. I'll help you. To the best of my ability._

"If you think it will help," Rinoa said, uncannily reading close to Quistis' thoughts, "I am sure it will, Quisty."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For readers who would rather avoid the Laguna/Squall in this story, please note that we have a [Reading Guide](http://community.livejournal.com/brokenprism/2010/12/22/) available.

Squall found himself watching Laguna Loire after that unsettling exchange by the elevator, as if that small secluded space between them hadn't evaporated with daylight or distance. It felt claustrophobic, this unlooked-for link. That glimpse of simple, direct honesty had been like a stone dropped in water, the impact delayed and drawn out. Squall kept waiting for the currents of politics to carry it away, for the roil of his own mind to dislodge it in favour of any of the more urgent things plaguing him.

The Sorceress-Knight bond hounded his thoughts — and he hated that, because this time it was of his own doing. Before, when it had intruded constantly into his consciousness, it had been discomfiting, unnerving; he had longed to bury it under paperwork and training, dates with Rinoa, normal things that he could handle, that didn't make his blood beat in a rhythm that wasn't his own, that didn't dry his mouth at the taste of magic in the air. But he kept trying to dredge it up and forward now, kept trying to reach for it, to check, worrying at it like a loose tooth — and there was nothing there, or so thready and weak he couldn't be sure he wasn't imagining things; splintered and hollow. His GFs stirred uneasily and leaked memories into his dreams and he snapped at them for it, wondered how hard they'd be to summon next time because of all this, and thought of Laguna's straightforward words like he was starving somehow.

Laguna, in turn, seemed to have turned down the sunshine-and-rainbows dial — Squall couldn't put his finger on it except that Laguna seemed to _hover_ less, _expect_ less, _hope_ less. He'd been such a constant low-grade intrusion that it was strange to find him less _present_ just as Squall had grown painfully aware of him, everything slipping through his fingers just as he turned his attention to it.

Squall sat in yet another meeting and watched Laguna gesticulate and grin and request Squall's backup like always. The city planning committee was kicking up some kind of fuss — resource diversion, commuting infrastructure to the proposed sites — and Laguna showed slides and invited Commander Leonhart to share his experience with how a Garden impacted nearby urban areas. Laguna smiled at him in invitation, the private smiles edged with something sad and distant now, and those frank words echoed back up again — _go right ahead and be a jackass_.

Laguna was turning away again, drawing breath to smooth over the bump Squall's silences and single-syllable answers inevitably introduced, when Squall's mouth started _talking_ , giving an actual account of city-Garden interaction. Commuting, population attrition, tourism. Laguna turned to look at him again and, "The cadets take holidays in the city," Squall found himself saying, staring at his hands like he was a cadet himself, giving a report.

He dragged his eyes up — _Commander_ Leonhart, dammit — and found the scrutiny of the table immediately irritating: polite _sure I'm listening_ smiles, raised eyebrows and small attentive nods like these people cared about anything outside their own narrow spheres of interest. He cut his gaze back to Laguna and there it was again, the shadow of the simple genuine man, making Squall feel boxed in and somehow dragging yet another sentence out of him — "They often spend a lot of money in the city, and their exhibition matches draw visitors from other nearby towns..." He trailed off, frowning at Laguna, mouth sour for no reason he knew, but Laguna just nodded and turned to the table and took Squall's stilted little speech and ran with it, no more reaction or acceptance than that.

These strange contained moments made Squall want to find the man and— shake him, maybe. Fight him? Would sparring help? He knew well enough the kinds of tension that could be broken by a good spar — he thought of Almasy, wondered where the idiot was and if he could punch him in the face a few times — but this didn't seem to be it. It didn't feel like Laguna had shut a door in his face; he'd just... stopped holding it open and waving him in.

Squall pushed away these unwelcome concerns and reached half-automatically for the Bond, small too-frequent nudges near where his GFs listened, like a nervous gesture in his head; he was all too aware of it, noticing himself doing it just in time to feel the dip of disappointed irritation and small, distant grief. A cool wisp of loving concern and cold hungry disapproval feathered through his thoughts, and he shivered. Cerberus gave him a more direct and disgruntled mental nudge, a memory spilled accusingly back at his feet: _Squall's hand cutting through the air in exasperation, Rinoa looking down at her feet as Squall's words bite the air: "Stop shuffling your Junctions around! They don't like it when you rearrange things constantly like that, you're bothering them and it makes them harder to summon. Time could be_ critical _when you need them._ Plan _your Junctions and then leave them alone. And—" about to start on some other complaint, but he turns on his heel with a loud, irritated noise and stalks stiffly away. Behind him he hears Quistis come up in his stead, talking to Rinoa more quietly and steadily..._

He'd forgotten that.

Laguna gave him a strange look after the meeting and Squall wondered if something had shown on his face, when he'd gotten lost in his own head again. The city planning people went one way, Laguna and Squall another, and Squall tried not to hug the opposite wall of the hallway, tried to ignore the space Laguna occupied and the silences that now sat heavy between them, palpable where Squall had once dismissed them almost without thought.

Squall stopped, and realized at the same moment that it wasn't because the sound of Laguna's footsteps had faded behind him — he hadn't heard that, wandering around in his mind again instead of paying attention, and this lack of care was getting _dangerous_ when he couldn't keep track of people moving around him — no, he'd stopped simply because Laguna wasn't _near_ anymore, the subconscious push of the man's presence like moonlight and just as noticeable in its absence. He turned to see Laguna several feet behind him in the hallway and wariness prickled down his spine, because Laguna was looking at him, all serious and earnest, and Squall could have left, turned around and left this behind.

Laguna regarded him in silence for a moment. His hands made some kind of aborted gesture, stopped; he took a breath to speak.

"Are you— are you all right?"

The question— it disarmed Squall, somehow; he blinked blankly and felt strangely cornered, the several strides of distance between them seeming to stretch out forever and slam together all at once. The hallway seemed to curve away and down — a slick of vertigo in his gut and Squall didn't know why it was such a _loaded_ question, why it barred his thoughts like a wall and he couldn't get over it to see what was on the other side. His throat clogged with an urge to say something — anything — _yes, no, mind your own business, can we still do drinks, leave me alone_. He just stared, stupidly and helplessly, fingers curling at his sides. He wasn't even lost in thought this time. He just didn't know what to say.

But Laguna took the silence like he always did, letting it go; he ducked his head and shrugged his shoulders with a tiny _what-will-you?_ smile, and started walking again, past Squall, and Squall stared at his retreating back, lips feeling numb and head thick and a sudden flare shot through his chest, something quick and small and desperate, he was so _tired_ , and "I—" he started.

Laguna turned, closer this time than before, just a step or two away and gravity seemed to curve away again, leaving Squall weightless and uncertain, disoriented. He thought of space stations. He didn't know what he wanted to say and he wished he hadn't even started but there Laguna was, attentive, listening without judgment and he couldn't stop comparing this to how Rinoa used to be with him and the starving feeling came again and he found honesty on his tongue, his mouth shaping the words: "Thank you."

It came out stiff and stilted; it wasn't an answer to Laguna's question, in the slightest, and Squall couldn't explain — thanks for asking, thanks for prying, thanks for not prying harder, thanks for leaving me alone, thanks for that night, thanks for nothing, he didn't even know. But Laguna smiled, eyes crinkling and kind, seeming to understand this garbled gesture without elaboration — and Squall suspected Laguna received the less pleasant sides of the signal just fine, too, and smiled anyway; Squall felt guilty and stupid standing in this hallway with Laguna Loire, and looked away, to the side and down.

Laguna waited a few more moments and Squall tried not to shift under his gaze, a sudden rush of exasperation at the urge to shuffle his feet and the man's damn mannerisms infecting him — until finally Squall saw Laguna's weight shift back through his legs, preparing to turn around again. Laguna's hand, hanging loose by his side, lifted a little, opened in a small wave: letting the conversation go without rancour, wishing Squall well anyway. Squall's eyes jerked back up, the gesture catching in his memory somehow, lodging there like Laguna's unsettling honesty from before, but Laguna was walking away again, down the hallway and to whatever damned responsibility awaited him next.

Squall tossed restlessly around his thoughts that night, trying to sleep; he could discipline his _body_ into stillness and deep breathing, but his mind was a morass — and he'd used to have such a firm grip on his thoughts until Rinoa had come and shattered it... He found himself reaching for her again and stamped on the impulse, annoyed; tossed off the sheets and prodded the computer to life, its screen lighting up the dark room, hurting his eyes.

He blinked the blindness away and had the message open and addressed already when he stopped and stared at the endless blank where his words should go. He was so tired of magic. The impulse had sent him here, to something more concrete, something he understood, something simple, signals sent in electricity instead of the heart-thrum of his blood and the distant echo of magic in the shadow of the moon. But one needed words and the other didn't; his fingers flexed and he hated this terrible indecision, all the layers of Rinoa-Squall-Rinoa peeled back to show that he still didn't know what to say to her.

Aborted words tangled on the screen, hands pecking hesitant at the keyboard for a moment followed by sharp jabs at the backspace key; his eyes watered with lack of sleep and the terminal's too-bright light. _I miss you. What are you doing to me? Stop putting yourself in danger. Please go home_ — but Balamb Garden wasn't her home, and Squall put his face in his hands, brows pinched together, hair falling in his way and the air of the room feeling too cold on his bare shoulders.

 _I hope you're safe._

He hit send and powered the terminal down in jerky, unsteady motions; his covers had gone cool while he'd hunched over the computer and he thought of Shiva and her cold unwelcome comfort. He closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

And the Guardians whispered to him in his dreams, restless from the too-frequent touch of his mind; memories leaked across to him in disorienting drifts, his and theirs, his-and-theirs, things they'd shared and things they'd stolen and things he'd kept — _the orphanage, and Matron by the sea; the first time he'd seen Quistis lose a match; the only time he'd cried as a cadet (it had been Shiva, Junctioning her for the first time — how cruel and cold, her heartless commentary on everyone around them and realizing she was like a sister to his heart and crying then for reasons he didn't understand, thirteen and so ashamed)_. And Rinoa, always: bright and smiling, the flare of her temper and the way she looked at him and _understood_. Her caring eyes became Laguna's, and the space between them that never seemed to shrink or grow, and he saw hands, endlessly: Rinoa's curling and uncurling around a feather and Laguna's tiny wave, again and again, parting and parting.

Sensation seemed to wash over him in his sleep and he found it was his own hand drifting up for that small gesture, waving and watching himself-Squall-himself standing a few steps down the hall, and then Laguna-him fighting the dragon again, him-Laguna running down a forest path, the dream-memories washing up over him again, the ones he had spread before his Guardians and thought _take them, take them, they're so useless_. Remembering so well what it felt like to be Laguna Loire that his dreams provided him with the extrapolation effortlessly, Laguna-Squall standing and watching Commander Leonhart for ages and ages, waiting, before leaving like it didn't matter.

Squall woke feeling even less rested and didn't rise for a moment, staring blindly at the ceiling. He didn't want to remember these things. Closed his eyes. He couldn't keep bothering the Bond like this, not if he wanted to— to survive this thing with Rinoa. To _sleep_.

Messages had piled up in the night, automated alerts of meetings and events sent off every midnight; end-of-the-day correspondence from Zell back in Balamb, time difference putting them out of sync with Squall's evening. Rinoa's response was buried among them, but he read it first and then couldn't stand the thought of wading through the rest, the empty automated words, when Rinoa's response held none of her usual friendly chatter, said nothing to explain the spell-sing of his blood, when the empty suite seemed large and airless, when he felt so hollow and tired. He grabbed his clothes and shut the door, no appetite for breakfast, leaving the message untouched on the screen until the computer quietly shut itself down.

 _I'm okay._

  


_________________________________

  


Laguna glanced up at the heavy metal clang of the door, thinking Kiros might be joining him on the roof this morning, to find Squall blinking at him, frozen in the doorway. Laguna's first thought was to freeze, too, as if Squall were a wary animal; his second thought was that Squall looked like _hell and a half_ , which was followed immediately by his hand offering Squall the coffee without asking Laguna's inadequately caffeinated brain about it.

Squall stared at the proffered cup, then at Laguna, his gaze disconcertingly steady. Laguna felt a little ridiculous with his hand stuck out between them like that with its half-full coffee cup and he was regretting the unthinking gesture already; Squall's sense of private space was so prickly and unpredictable, and he'd probably just wanted to be alone out here for a while before the day descended on them both — but then Squall's hand came up, slowly. Laguna watched it, suddenly and ridiculously nervous that they'd fumble this simple action of passing a cup between them, Laguna unwilling to intrude enough to touch hands and they were going to drop it, he was convinced, and coffee would splash all over Squall's uniform pants and Laguna would babble to himself _even harder_ — But Squall gripped the cup firmly, from beneath, avoiding Laguna's fingers without endangering the drink. Laguna withdrew his hand, too slowly under Squall's expressionless gaze, and tried really hard to become absorbed in the vista again.

There wasn't really all that much room up here; Squall settled himself not far away, leaning on the railing and staring silently out into the pink haze of impending sunrise. He held the cup in both hands in front of him, propping himself up on his elbows, fingers interlaced lightly around the mug. Squall closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in the coffee's scented steam. Laguna, bereft of his drink, tried to keep eating his sandwich but the thing suddenly tasted mealy and unappetizing; he didn't like ham anyway. He wrapped it back up, the sound loud in the silent air until a small breeze picked the noise up and carried it away.

It felt small and fragile, whatever this was — _cease-fire_ , he was tempted to think — he didn't know if there was space here for words, gestures, anything besides Squall tolerating his presence, by choice. Words crowded in his mouth, unhelpful and useless — Squall wouldn't welcome them, and Laguna didn't even know what they were, knew they'd come out tumbled and tangled if he tried. The thin silence seemed delicate in the pale dawn light, filmy and evanescent like soap bubbles — he thought of Ellone, buying her a bottle and watching her blow them into the Winhill fields for hours, consenting to chase them through the grass with her until they were both breathless. The bubbles had popped at the slightest touch, leaving their fingers wet and sticky; sometimes they'd fade and die out reaching too long and far for the sun. Laguna's hands curled and uncurled at the memory as he tried not to watch Squall sipping from _his_ mug.

And then the door clanged again, Kiros for real this time and Laguna's stomach did something uncomfortable and confused — a hollow dip of disappointment churned with a blot of panic ( _no, don't interrupt this_ ) — Kiros' eyes flicking to Squall and raising one expressive eyebrow in Laguna's direction before dipping his chin in greeting to them both. Squall had turned at the noise and Laguna caught the stiffening of his shoulders; it left him feeling helpless somehow as he watched Squall jerk a nod for Kiros's benefit. Kiros waved a sheaf of papers at Laguna. "Lab research budget?" The question was telegraphed in Kiros's eyes and tone, and Laguna was suddenly nervous about the possibility of Squall knowing how to interpret it — he hadn't spent _that_ much time around Kiros in Laguna's head, had he? — because the question wasn't _want to take care of this now?_ but _he's here, how do you want to handle this?_

Squall was watching him, quietly but without subterfuge, as if asking the same question. Laguna's coffee was still in Squall's hands, unfinished and cooling. He looked so tired, and Laguna was almost torn — his instinct was to stay, to keep that exhaustion company through the grumpy hours of the morning. But he remembered the long, almost relaxed line of Squall's back before Kiros came, the way he'd closed his eyes and inhaled the coffee smell, and realized abruptly that those had been confidences, small secrets against the sunrise.

Laguna gestured Kiros back to the door, Squall's gaze on him like a weight; he gave a small wave that Squall returned as a nod, the exchange feeling new and brittle. They went down the stairs, and Laguna craned his neck to watch the strong planes of Squall's back before the door shut the sight away.

He blew out his breath.

Kiros put a hand low on Laguna's back as they descended, at the base of his spine, light but firm, reassuring and steady. Laguna leaned into it for a moment, the touch as good and solid as a wall propping him up, warm against the tension in his back, and he saw Kiros' lips quirk; felt his hand spread and press a little more. Kiros's breath was warm against Laguna's ear as he murmured, "Need a hand?"

A laugh puffed out of Laguna and he shook his head, a quick grin of thanks before tapping the papers still in Kiros's hand. "With the budget, sure."

Kiros smiled acceptance, and a queasy-warm wave of _gratitude_ washed through Laguna, that Kiros was so effortless to deal with, was such a good friend, could accept his dodges and rejections with such easy grace; Hyne but Laguna _needed_ that right now. Someone who wasn't all sharp angles and slippery surfaces.

"Why is he so _complicated_?" he burst out, halting on the stairs, and he _almost_ stamped his foot. It was amazing how Squall managed to make him feel — _the hilarity_ — nineteen again.

Kiros jerked to a halt, too, following Laguna, even that motion fluid— and barked a laugh. Laguna scowled at him; Kiros gave a smooth placating wave of his hand, sobering. "Maybe," Kiros said, his voice affectionately teasing and serious at once, "because he's _your_ son."

"I'm not that complicated! I just want my coffee and to know what the hell he's thinking!"

"Of course," Kiros grinned, his tone and face saying, _Bullshit_.

Laguna deflated, abruptly, unwilling to argue the point — and Kiros changed tacks effortlessly, grin sliding off his face to be replaced by warm concern. "What did I walk in on, up there?"

" _I don't know_. He— he didn't leave when he saw me there? And he took my coffee. God, why did I do that. That was _cafeteria_ coffee." Kiros' lips were sliding up at the corners again, and Laguna _knew_ he was babbling, but the image of Squall leaning on the railing, breathing in the kitchen coffee smell, was stuck on loop in his mind: fingers interlaced and eyes closed and hair shifting in the small breezes — he'd looked relaxed, right? (He hadn't hated the coffee, right?) "He sniffed my coffee," Laguna blurted.

"He seemed to be enjoying it when I saw him," Kiros offered, distinctly not-laughing at him, and Laguna felt restless at this tilted conversation, thankful for the way Kiros bent himself around Laguna's sharp mental turns but so tired of his brain sliding every which way — his thoughts were buzzing and Squall had his coffee and it was way too early for alcohol.

Laguna's eyes flicked up to Kiros'. "That _helpful_ offer still open?" he breathed.

Kiros chuckled, the sound dark and smooth and rich and Laguna almostmelted against the stairwell wall in relief, tugging Kiros forward by his shirt; their mouths slid together, warm and familiar and distracting and Laguna arched up into it thoughtlessly, hands wrapping around Kiros's waist. One of Kiros's hands sank into Laguna's hair, which felt _amazing_ , occupying all of his attention for a moment as silky warmth slid from that contact and down his neck, his spine—

The lab budget crinkled, loud and echoing in the stairwell, crushed between Kiros's other hand and Laguna's hip. "Probably not here," Kiros murmured in his ear, rich with amusement, but Laguna's mind jumped immediately to the thought of Squall catching them here and god no, that would probably not be helpful — and tension spilled back across his shoulders thinking of Squall a flight above them, probably done with the coffee and scowling at the horizon about whatever was wrong, and Laguna's continuing inability to help or even know how to _offer_ it.

He sighed, and let his hands slide off Kiros's waist. "Yeah. Probably not here," he echoed, with a small smile. "Let's— let's take care of that budget."

Kiros raised an eyebrow, something flickering across his face, but assented without commentary, trotting after Laguna down the stairs.

  


_________________________________

  


Ellone rounded the corner, and her first glimpse of Squall was him leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched in that off-putting way he had, hands in his pockets, gaze on the ground — muttering something to Laguna, who was shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking nervous — but laughing, out loud, apparently at whatever Squall was saying. She paused for one long moment and drank them in: _family,_ in the same building, in the same hallway, and even if Squall was still putting out those _leave-me-alone_ vibes he at least wasn't acting on them anymore _._ Her family was _here._

Then Laguna caught sight of her, and it was like she was five years old again, feet skidding across the carefully-polished floor so that she fell, clumsily, into Laguna's arms — _pretending to fight off Caterchipillars in front of the bar —_ he squeezed her tighter, as if he hadn't seen her in months instead of just a few weeks — _goldfish crackers in her soup; Laguna's laugh as he spilled his water —_ Ellone buried her face in Uncle Laguna's shirt and breathed, trying to block the powerful wave of memories that leapt out at her.

(It had been like this, since Time Compression, as if her grip on _now_ was just a little too loose. She hadn't told anyone. It was... bearable.)

"Uncle Laguna," she said, keeping her voice playful as she took a step away from him, trying to regain her mental footing in the here-and-now. "It's about time you called me over here!" She looked over his shoulder at Squall. Squall looked... he looked annoyed, like he always did, but there was something bright and happy in his eyes too. "Hi, Squall."

"Hi, Sis." His voice was low, almost dismissive, but Ellone caught the nickname, and her heart wanted to burst with it: _family._ He hadn't remembered for so long but she always had — her _own_ memories caught in her brain, stickier than the others — and the soft recognition in his eyes always seemed to dawn just for her, Squall's version of a heartfelt welcome.

She carefully moved Laguna to the side. "Come on, Squall, give your sis a hug," she said, and threw her arms around him.

Squall stayed stiff and awkward for just a few moments — _Rinoa's head, leaning against his hip; fingers in her hair, her tears on his skin—_ and then relaxed into it, his hands coming up tentatively to circle behind her — _iron-strong grip on Lionheart as he swung, and the recoil of the gun jerking his elbows —_ Ellone hugged him tighter almost instinctively — _fire, firefirefire and a sweeping shock leaving him breathless—_ she opened her eyes and stepped back, her hands shaking. _What in the world...?_

Squall frowned down at her, and Ellone babbled a little bit: "Sorry, I think... you just hug too tight, Squall!" She devolved into teasing, her natural response, even as she swallowed the memory of bile in Squall's mouth and sweat across his forehead. Something had happened. What was she picking up?

By the time she turned around, Laguna was rubbing the back of his neck, that bright-light smile on his face the way she knew he always hid upset (Laguna was easy to read for her, a myriad of expressions playing across her memory like the pages of a flip-book). "Why don't I let you two catch up a little. Squall, I'll be... I'll see you at dinner." He turned away, pausing on his first step as if he wanted to add something else—but then he continued, still idly rubbing his neck.

"See you." The words sounded almost begrudging, but Ellone recognized the gesture in them. She turned to Squall, smiling, trying to express every bit of her approval without using words—he didn't use too many words, did he? _Trying, reaching and failing, she slipped through his fingers—_ the aftershock of Squall's memory still rang in her ears and she reached for anything, conversation, idle chatter to cover her own distraction.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't here earlier. I've been away for a bit, and only just got Laguna's message yesterday." The leisurely pace of her usual wanderings had turned into a headlong rush, and she would have urged the White SeeD ship on even faster, if she could have. Its familiar metal hulls were a peaceful block to the way her magic leaked, now, but she had abandoned the temptation of that comfort in an instant when she'd learned where Squall was. "I hope you still have time to spend with me!"

Squall's mouth twitched in a tiny smile. "I assume I can work something in around all of the meetings."

"Meetings?" Ellone frowned, and her hands clasped at each other in a second of query. Laguna had sounded so nervous on the phone — _Ellie-Elle, please, if you have any time at all, come stay at the Palace and help your Uncle Laguna out, Squall likes you_ — she'd been under the assumption that this was a friendly visit, or at least a civilian one, the first step in a reconciliation between father and son. "What in the world for?"

Squall sighed, and lurched against the wall again, and she wondered whether they should go somewhere separate and talk. "Esthar submitted a proposal for a new Garden. I'm here to investigate potential sites and see whether or not it would be feasible."

"Oh!" She heard the disappointment in her own voice, and tried to turn it into a laugh. "Sorry, for some reason I thought this was... a vacation."

Squall snorted in answer, and in case she hadn't gotten the message, he also rolled his eyes and hunched over even more. "No," he said, and his tone of voice said, _not on my life._ "Business."

Ellone looked at him for a moment. Suspicion and incredulity grew in equal measures—did he really not...? "I'm sure Laguna would like to be friends," she said, her voice inviting, encouraging, wondering.

"I'm sure he would." Squall's voice was even and just as flat, but held nothing—no recognition, no hidden anything. No understanding at all. He looked up, and regret crossed his face. "Sorry, sis. I know you like him a lot. I won't... insult him."

"But he's your..." _Father,_ she wanted to say, because did he really not know? It flickered inside her, memory-pictures playing like a scrapbook — _the first time Laguna had made her pancakes, because Raine was too ill in those early days of the—_ Squall shrugged, and the memory faded.

"I _know_ I have to work with him," Squall bit out, and she heard resentment, irritation, and a strange wistfulness in equal parts. "I'm being nice. Look." He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face; when he dropped it, he tried to smile at her; it wrenched at her heart it was so sad, although she smiled back. "It's been a very rough couple weeks," he admitted. "I'm sorry. Can we maybe—go get dinner or something, some day I'm not..." _Frustrated up the wall,_ said his body language, and as she looked closer, it flashed across her head again, blinding-white static and _Squall, **please,**_ the echo of a voice she thought she knew—

"Tired," he said finally.

"Of course." Ellone conjured up a smile through the blockade of pain currently clutching at her heart. "No problem. I'm going to be staying here for a couple of days, so let's definitely do dinner once or twice." She stepped forward, suddenly feeling strangely protective, and put a hand on his arm — _teaching Squall to build sandcastles — Matron, watching from the window, her eyes sad — Quistis, too young, standing in front of the classroom —_ how many women had tried to care for Squall? _Rinoa, in the ocean, the tug of the tide around his ankles._ "Squall," she said, feeling a swell of sisterly affection. "You seem really stressed."

The noise he made wasn't committal at all, but was probably an affirmation.

"Go take a break. I'll probably see you at dinner, anyway — Laguna likes to have Kiros or Ward take me. As a _date._ " Her nose screwed up at it, and _Hyne woke up,_ this got a laugh from Squall. "And we can figure things out then, okay? I haven't even unpacked yet!"

Her words seemed to reassure Squall, and he nodded in agreement, pausing to press his lips against her forehead in a very un-Squall-like gesture — _Rinoa, sleeping in the darkness, aeons of space between them_ — and he gave her a little wave as he turned to leave.

Ellone waited until he had turned the corner and then sank into the wall; it was still warm from Squall, and it breathed memory at her: _Laguna had spent the afternoon meeting learning how to draw Moomba prints (what a moron) — the morning bagels were stale (this is ridiculous) —_ and nowhere, nowhere was there any recognition of what Laguna actually was, what stood before Squall in all its connective glory. She sagged, leaning her head back against the wall, pressing her palms into it and trying to read the heat of Squall's body from the paint, but the memories were fading quickly: she got a flash of _cool-ice-stars wheeling in the sky — feathers — (I want to go home (but I don't)) —_ and then it drowned her senses in static again.

Tears pricked her eyes. Had Squall really not figured it out yet? How was Laguna dealing with this — he'd been so worried, so nervous, and to have to stand and watch his own son right next to him _not know him_ — it was heartbreaking, to her, just to think about. All she had left of her own parents were a handful of genuine memories from her early years and another handful she'd scrabbled from the past, in Winhill, using Laguna and Raine as unwitting conduits before she really understood what she could do. And every time she opened that box she felt the loss, that she'd only see them through stolen eyes. How could Squall not see it? How could he not feel this tug?

She had to make him see. So many people had lost their chance — she'd almost inadvertently wrecked the world just to see that she was loved as a child! And Squall had his own father right there, beside him, _drawing those stupid moombas again (they look like blobs with feet) and showing them to Kiros —_

But she _could_ show him.

Ellone closed her eyes. She could make him see, of course, _literally—_ or, once she could have. Something had loosened within her; her ability to connect had come back _stained,_ tainted with the shadows of so many ages upon it, threads of white dyed too many colors to count now, too many ages and Sorceresses and years to keep anything untangled anymore. Could she? She pressed her hands into the wall; she hadn't lost it: no, it was like she had brought back _more_ than she'd had before, and it... frightened her.

Heat faded into her palms and she remembered the flash of static, the bird's-cry and blooming fire and white noise, and she wondered: was she picking up Rinoa? She and Rinoa were still connected, vaguely, Squall being the fulcrum of their own private Time Compression and the cobweb of it draped over them all like ribbons, sometimes, in Ellone's dreams. She pressed her hands to her face.

 _Laguna, sad, over the bowl of soup and the spilled water: "I just wonder if he'll..." A tentative trail, and then he grinned. "Whatever, right? It's okay. Let's get a piece of every pie they have here."_

She stood up. She owed it to them to make this happen: owed it to Laguna, to Squall; to her own parents, lost in time, and to Raine, whom she'd loved. She owed it to them to at least _try;_ once ("once" was a strange thought, because that single moment _once_ had lasted for _all the ages, every second of every hour that ever had existed_ ) time had been her plaything, or at least memories had.

Ellone breathed in the sharp air of the hallway, and breathed out a smile. She could do this.

  


_________________________________

  


Laguna closed the door to his office and sighed, loud and exuberantly, because it always made him feel better to fill this sterile space with noise of some kind: some days, he swore, half of his bumblings and mumblings and personal jokes muttered to himself were really just attempts to ward off silence, that most awful of enemies. He hated the quiet emptiness that fell in rooms, because it left space for his idle thoughts and _all_ his ghosts together, crowding in as silence fell in small but unrelenting movements. He rubbed a hand over his face. Squall was getting to him, this time; Squall and Ellone, both here, in his space — and they looked so good together, so happy to see each other, that Squall's cold shoulder hurt all the more in retrospect.

Dammit. He opened the top drawer of his desk and fumbled around for a pad of sticky notes, intending to send Kiros a memo asking about a private dinner tonight with the recently reunited family—was there anything the kitchen could do on short notice? Hell, he'd eat ice-cream for dinner (again) to see Squall and Ellone at the same table, Squall's closed face tentatively opening to Elle's frank, simple teasing. And he, the old voyeur at the end of the table, frantically taking notes in glitter pen directly into his _skull:_ how does one get Squall to do such things?

It was like — at first he couldn't turn _off_ around the kid. Kiros had said in the past he was always way too eager to please, but Laguna had found himself on overdrive around Squall: trying not just to please but to impress, to make an impression _on,_ to show that he was something and someone worth knowing, worth speaking to, worth joking with. But now it was like he just couldn't turn _on,_ because engaging hurt like an anchor to the skull (and didn't he know how that felt, what with Ward and hangovers)—giving all of that and not getting any of it _back._ Not getting _anything_ ; talking to Squall was like talking to a wall, sometimes, except for those paper-thin cracks, those tiny fault-lines he let slip every now and then.

It was as if Ellone held some key into Squall. And Laguna didn't want to steal her key; he wanted his own, anything, a sign that they shared some kind of connection. An acknowledgment? No, that didn't really make sense. He didn't want to be Squall's _dad_ —no, that came out wrong, because he was and he did; it was more that the time for all of that had passed. He wasn't looking to pick up responsibilities or give guidance or share _when I was your age_ stories, mainly because god, when he'd been Squall's age he'd been a mess and a half, and if Squall thought he was stupid _now_ god _forbid_ he ever see Laguna at nineteen. Squall was stronger, brighter, better than he'd ever been—and it was probably _because_ Laguna had never touched him, growing up, with the noisy mess he seemed to carry with him.

He closed the door more harshly than he'd meant. Squall didn't _owe_ him anything just because he was his kid. And he didn't want to get to know Squall because Squall was his kid—he wanted to know _Squall,_ Squall Leonhart, brilliant and sharp and prickly, soldier-trained, mercenary-raised. _Maybe you could stop looking for things that aren't there, and start focusing on the things that are?_

The sticky note stared up at him, blank and inviting.

  


_________________________________

  


Squall watched as Ellone ran her fingers lightly across the fancy scrollwork adorning the haft of her fork; he might have taken it as an absentminded gesture except that he'd caught her doing it to other things, too: she'd touched the fringed tablecloth as they'd been seated at their table and she'd lingered, earlier, over the little wooden table in the lobby, her hands brushing its lacquered surface — though her eyes had been on the bowl of after-dinner buttermints atop it. Squall had smiled, then, and silently predicted she would pocket some on the way out; now he found himself tracking this habit, watching Ellone's face and fingers. She was looking around the restaurant alertly, taking it all in, eyes flicker-lingering over other random curiosities of the place.

She caught him looking, and put the fork down, tucked her hair behind her ear. "Still sure you don't want to try the pie?" She smiled.

He shook his head no, frowning at an out-of-place note of mental dissonance. It wasn't the pie — she had coaxed him all the way here, trying to get him to order some overly-elaborate sounding cavity vehicle — then he realized that it was the fork, putting down the fork without a word to him. He'd been expecting more, he realized, because Rinoa did the same thing, picking out little details — and then sharing with him, pointing them out, inviting him to see, to know all these little things together and remember later. Ellone hadn't said a word about any of the small things she'd seen or touched, and it occurred to him to wonder what _memory_ meant to _her_.

"So," she picked up the trailed-off conversation, "the new Garden project sounds pretty complicated. You've been here all this time reviewing Esthar's bid?" She had spent the dinner extracting the details of Squall's reason for being in Esthar — though they hadn't reached the subject of Squall's rather precipitous departure from Balamb, which was not something he wanted to discuss.

Not that he was too enthused to be going over the Garden thing, again; his mouth twisted now, every hour spent in meetings weighing it down. "Yeah."

"Not as exciting as you'd hoped?" Her eyes twinkled, but her smile spoke sympathy.

Squall snorted. "I hadn't expected Esthar politics to be so... involved," he confessed.

"It's been... complicated, since the wall came down and the Lunar Cry." Ellone hesitated, and Squall saw her hand drift towards the fork again, as if she wanted comfort before saying something difficult— and then the waiter deposited their check; Squall signed off on it without checking the sum — if Laguna was going to push perks on him so insistently...

Esthar's cool night air swept his face as they left the restaurant; Squall closed his eyes for a moment to let it run through his hair, remembering the soft rooftop breezes of that morning. He opened his eyes and Ellone was watching him with a small, simple smile, the wind catching on her shawl. He found himself smiling back at her, the breeze seeming to carry away some of the tension in his shoulders, his face, his hands. "I'm glad you're here," he said abruptly, but it came out easy and heartfelt and he couldn't really care how awkward it felt in his mouth when Ellone smiled even wider at him.

"I'd have come earlier if you'd told me," she returned, teasing. The comment seemed to skewer the little ease, but Squall's guilty grimace was dislodged by Ellone bumping her shoulder against his. He barely felt her thin frame through the leather of his jacket, but gave her a small smile; her own grin had a wistful edge to it and he realized belatedly that he was supposed to bump back or— something, some more enthusiastic display. He turned his head before she could see the smile sliding off his face.

"Home?" he asked, starting up the street.

"Yeah," she sighed, big and wistful. "I need to get my sleep." There was some kind of playful undercurrent to her words that he didn't understand — _what?_ — some other social sibling-cue that he didn't know how to pick up, maybe; thinking about it was making him feel hollow and irritated and he put it out of his mind. The conversation flattened again.

"Well," Ellone continued after a beat, "what _have_ you been doing this whole time?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but her hand came up to cut him off— " _Besides_ meetings." He gave her an exasperated look.

They turned a corner; his eyes swept the street automatically while he tried to think past the haze of exhaustion and endless boardroom tables to remember _anything else_ about this visit. His thoughts stumbled over his dreams, over the unsettling space where the Bond had been. Rinoa, Timber, politics, magic he didn't understand. He could feel Ellone beside him, attentive, expectant, wanting things from him and... maybe... But the words to explain tangled somewhere in his stomach. He realized he'd been silent for too long again and tried to think of anything about this visit that wasn't meetings and nightmares.

"... Loire took me out to tour the sites." He caught the unhappy flinch of Ellone's mouth — _dammit, I can at least call him by his first name for her_. "Alone. He got rid of all the bureaucrats somehow. Showed me around." He remembered the last site, the odd looks passing over the man's face. "He seemed— lonely." _Where had_ that _come from?_

It seemed to gratify Ellone, though. "He wants to get to know you," she said. Her voice lilted with encouragement. Why had he led them onto this subject?

"He has Kiros. I know _they're_ good friends." He rolled his eyes, and Ellone giggled, covering her mouth delicately. "Kiros seems... sensible," he went on, trying to be generous. Ellone loved these people so much. It felt strange trying to fit their lives together again...

"I like Ward," Squall said, after a beat. "We have good talks." And Ellone laughed at the halting joke, making Squall's mouth hitch up; though it was true, he got along well with Ward, who communicated eloquently — and _briefly_ — with expressions and gestures and well-chosen words on his tablet. The self-deprecating humour — it's not like he wasn't _aware_ how little he talked — had at least drawn a kind of delicate delight to Ellone's face, and he let his small smile relax his face.

Ellone's laugh faded into the night, and she sighed, content and a little... wistful? "It's good to see you," she said, bright and smiling up at him, all his awkwardness forgiven or forgotten.

"Good to see you too, Sis," and she made it easy for him to put an arm around her shoulders, for a moment, right before they reached the Palace doors.

  


_________________________________

  


Esthar was comforting to Ellone; its sleek-metal and shining-plastic surfaces were blinding to her eye, but memories slipped right off them to pool at her feet, a thick puddle she could nevertheless walk through or over with only minor distraction. It was a nice feeling, not at all overwhelming, and as they walked she kept her eye on the road and only felt the faint hum of distraction on the soles of her feet.

Laguna stopped at a corner market to buy some flowers — for what purpose, Ellone had absolutely no idea; he was recognized, and the haggling continued for some time in a bizarre parody of itself: the vendor insisting on giving the President a discount; Laguna arguing, laughing, that he could and would pay full price. Ellone watched, amused, and dabbled a toe into the memories in the street (mostly _walking, running, late-hurry-panic,_ with a swirl of some deep dark growl that couldn't have been human).

He came back with his arms full of daisies and his face alight with a delighted smile. "I'm going to set these out at the social tonight!" He seemed to be genuinely pleased, and it made Ellone smile. She knew walking Esthar was one of Laguna's favorite things to do; he would set out with no designs, no intentions, just a general desire to see his city and talk to its people. They were both armed, of course — after the Cry, most Esthar citizens were — but it was still a casual walk. A casual walk with flowers, now.

Ellone knew it helped Laguna, sometimes, just to walk the city. Part of it was the action itself, the calm soothing motion of a walk, the way it got Laguna out of meetings and up on his feet; he made definite efforts to stay active and in shape, but a walk was more relaxing than real training. Part of it was the people: Laguna never made any attempts to turn people away or have any sort of privacy. He was a President who couldn't stay no, and often their walks spiraled out of control, into hours of policy discussion or idle gossip; it was part of Laguna's appeal to Esthar, Ellone thought privately, a piece of genuinely interesting and interested humanity in the middle of a country full of screens and gears and wheels. Esthar's citizens loved having a President who was within their reach, walking their streets, and Laguna loved the feedback of it: he reveled in every single individual conversation, telling endless stories about the people he met. The discussions rejuvenated him.

And part of it was just taking the time to see the city, this place Laguna had chosen to serve. Ellone knew — from memory-flash, dream-speak, the kinds of things her powers planted in her head like unwilling seeds — that Laguna wore his choices deep, like a wound, one that had healed over but had irrevocably changed things in the process. He wore his regrets deeper, in places only Ellone and maybe Kiros could see ( _Raine — the sound of sobs; heartache, a ring of gold — Elle; Adel — Winhill)_ ; Laguna didn't believe in dwelling on anything, and yet... things _dwelt_ in him, a river so deep and bitter Ellone was constantly surprised every time she was reminded of it. His walks were confirmation, affirmation, renewing every day he could the choices he had made, recommitting himself to this path that had left him so strong and so broken.

They turned the corner and Elle looked out at the market, bright baubles reflecting Esthar's electric lights. The scent of potions and spiced pie filled the air. She laughed out loud, delighted, as all of her senses filled and the feeling of Time Compression, never far from the back of her brain, usually _creeping over her senses like mist,_ faded in the onslaught of scent and taste and sound.

Laguna grinned. "I thought you'd like this. You didn't see last month's, did you?"

They wheeled through the market slowly, Ellone stopping to touch fabric and graze appetizers and smell perfumes; Laguna made idle conversation with the vendors, the flowers not hindering him at all as he chatted. It was odd to think this wouldn't have been here only a few years prior, Esthar's odd solitude making such trade impossible.

Sated and happy, they sat down on a bench to people-watch. The bench was warm metal, and Ellone sank onto it thankfully; her mind was pleasantly overloaded, and the memories whispered by her softly, none requiring or demanding any more of her attention than she had to spare.

"Do you think Squall would like this place?" The question was overly casual, and Laguna's eyes were firmly on the flowers, adjusting part of the wrapper; Ellone's heart broke at his pretended nonchalance.

"I'm not sure," she said honestly. "It's very... busy." She tried to picture Squall in the middle of the square, fingers grazing fabric — no. Bent over that stall of weapons? Maybe. Then she tried to picture Squall over in the corner, leaning up against a cement balustrade and sulking: that was easy. "Maybe not," she said ruefully.

"Yeah." Laguna didn't say much else.

Ellone's heart broke at it, again; she wanted so badly for things to work between them, for this family of hers to come together the way she knew they could and _should._ A part of her, hidden as deep as Laguna's heart, felt _responsible_ for this. With Raine gone, she'd been the only one who _knew_ about Squall, but she hadn't realized it until she was much, much older: so much of her childhood had been a whirl of not-dreams and White SeeD and soldiers chasing her, and it had been an older and more responsible Ellone who had finally realized how much had been disconnected. She _was_ the connection, and she couldn't help but feel regret that she hadn't brought them together sooner — she blamed herself for this, the great gaping hole in Laguna's heart and the walls Squall wore about himself like shells. She hadn't known as a kid, but — there was so much she could have done! She'd seen all the gaping holes of opportunity in her _own_ past, dreams flickering by her, stretching her arms to reach them and finding the flow of the past too white-rapid fast to stay in her own grasp.

Witches may have searched through eons for her power, Ellone thought bitterly, but it didn't seem all that useful from _her_ point of view.

The daisies rustled at the edge of her attention, and Laguna stood up. "Alright," he said, and she watched as he flipped the switch from pensive back to cheerful; it looked easy on Laguna, but she had seen memories of the nights that switch stuck midway between elation and despair, and she shuddered. _Kiros' hands, firm and steady — the pillow hides the tears — regrets, choke like water — wash it all away — Raine's hand, so small in his own._

But now, Laguna just smiled. "Let's get these back and in some water."

Ellone stood and took a moment to brush the dust from her skirt, letting the motion anchor her in the present.

  


_________________________________

  


The lion moved silently, stalking up and down the dark hall, growl rough in his throat, floor cool beneath his great paws, fur rippling round his face like the collar of his jacket — _Rinoa laughed; "You always wear that thing," she said, "even when it's too hot to breathe!"_ —the scent of blood reached his nose, alerting his senses, and he paused, sniffing at it. (What is this? Griever?) His ears rotated towards the sudden sound — a scuffle, a loud rough human move, clumsy and fumbling in _his_ halls, and he turned, paws silently padding as his teeth tingled in anticipation of—

 _"Squall," Rinoa said, her voice full of morning laughter; "it's time to get up."_

She arched beneath him, her fingers coming up to work themselves into his hair the way he loved, tangling along his scalp. (Did I cut my hair? Why is it so short?) He tucked his head, lips eagerly tracing the lines of her neck, the curves of her collarbone, tasting sweat and perfume and her, _Rinoa,_ hissing harshly in a way he'd only heard once or twice.

(Odd. She looks younger.)

(...and beautiful.)

His hands (those aren't my hands) worked their way up the smooth skin of her belly; a finger tucked beneath her bra, and she gasped, the name becoming a drawn-out _Sssssss—_

(...Squall? Or _Seifer?_ )

 _"Squall. Really. You said you had a meeting."_

He opened his eyes. Rinoa was there, up on one elbow above him, her hair still sleep-mussed about her face. She had put on one of his work-out tanks; it was transparent on her, the curves of breast and nipple obvious through the thin white ribbed cotton. He never knew how to tell her he preferred this — military undershirt and panties — to her more contrived and elaborate outfits, although he could never complain about those either, the way she smiled sultry heat in heels.

His lips curved up, and she leaned in to kiss him. He closed his eyes, tasting only her in the morning light, her gentle breath warm and comforting on his face.

When he opened his eyes, Kiros laughed. (What? _Kiros_?) "Laguna, we don't have _time._ "

"Aw, come on," he said (no! _Don't say that_ ), chuckling, the sound rumbling upward easily. "They won't miss us at breakfast."

"Maybe not." A light in Kiros' eyes told him the proposal was being considered; light fingers tracing chest muscles furthered the concept — foreign-not-foreign heat bloomed in the touch's wake (— _no. what?)_. "But you'll miss breakfast, Loire, about two hours from now, and I'm the one who will have to put up with the whining."

(Oh, _shit._ )

The smile curved his face, crinkled his eyes; "That's why I stole ration bars yesterday."

"Oh?" Kiros' eyes narrowed into suspicious, merrily glinting slits. "That confident in my answer, are you?"

(Wake up wake up _wakeupwake—)_

Squall sat up in bed. Gasped. Choked on it, hurled it out of his lungs like air on fire, and breathed again.

He stumbled to the shower, unseeing and tripping through the unfamiliar bathroom; slammed the cold water on and threw himself into it, hissing, _wake up wake up wake—_ Ice seemed to shatter across his spine and he breathed out an echo of magic, gasping, hands scrambling to turn on the hot water, adrenaline suddenly electric in his blood as memories tangled with dreams and fuck, he was bloody awake _now_. His skin shivered under the tepid water, more shock than cold, and he leaned his arm up against the cool tile, pressed his forehead against it. A languid roil of warmth was still dissolving in his belly, driven nauseous and uneven by the cold water, the memory of ice piercing through him. He forced his breath even, ignoring the tendrils of heat that neither shower nor shock had managed to banish — _electric heat across his chest, the light trace of fingers_ — he breathed, hard and through his teeth.

He shut the useless shower off, chafed himself dry with a towel ( _ignored the echoed rough warmth of hands, broad and masculine_ ), made his way out of the bathroom; grey light already filled the suite, morning or close enough to it — _Rinoa's skin in the morning light, almost blue-pale, lovely against the white of his tank, her hair a dark messy spill — Laguna's hand pale against Kiros's skin, Laguna's body arching up_ —

Squall turned on his heel, a sharp right into the closet, and jerked a uniform off its hanger; the mechanical motions of dressing took over as he prodded his GFs: _are you doing this? what is this?_ These— things — these were not dreams he'd ever have normally — the spilled memory of Rinoa echoed inside him, resonant, and he refused to inspect the rest — but Shiva just laughed at him, high and sharp and tinkling, and Cerberus shifted with a low rumble that, dammit, was also probably laughter. He jerked the jacket closed with unnecessary savagery, and whipped the belt around his waist ( _hands on Laguna's torso_ ) with a harsh snap. The Guardians could get impossible, when it struck them and they were loose from their Junctions and he almost, almost considered doing it, Junctioning them up, just to make them quiet — but the strain of it was— was something he didn't need right now, dammit, and neither was this.

Laguna hovered around him for at least half of each day, and Squall was irrationally irritated that the man wouldn't even leave him alone in his _sleep_ ; it was absurd and he didn't care. He stalked out of the closet.

The mug with its faded slogan sat accusingly on his desk, where he'd absently left it, forgetting that it was a loan, and the _very last thing_ he needed was more reminders of Laguna Loire, more of the man invading his room and his _life_.

He snatched up the cup. A perfunctory rinse in the bathroom sink later, and he was carrying it up to the roof, feeling stupid and irritated at himself and Laguna: two (three?) feelings he had really been getting too much of lately. The roof door clanged open under his rough push, but the man was nowhere to be found — _predictable_ — and Squall stood there a moment, stymied. It was still early morning — he could be in his rooms. Squall turned on his heel and trotted down the stairs again, the short flight to the President's floor. He knew he was being irrational about this by now; it fed back into his frustration and he let it, stalking down the hallway with the mug clutched in one hand.

Squall rapped sharply on the door to the front rooms of the Presidential suite and prepared to cool his heels and deflate some of this useless temper—

The door opened entirely too soon, and Squall was abruptly confronted by Laguna Loire, half-dressed in slacks and undershirt, a foot from him in the doorway. "Oh—" Laguna blinked at him and Squall's mind was stuck at _of course he doesn't check who's at the door_ — "Hey!" Laguna grinned, uncertain but bright.

Squall blinked back, noting distantly the tank's evidence that Laguna had, if not exactly maintained a soldier's physique, stayed trim for his age when the observation slid dizzyingly into memory, Rinoa in Squall's undershirt, and this dissolved into Kiros' hands on his—

Squall tried not to choke, and thrust the mug forward, narrowly avoiding punching Laguna in the stomach with it. Laguna glanced down with a surprised flinch, hands coming up apparently automatically to accept the cup, and Squall snatched his fingers away from the man's warm-dry hands; he was entirely beyond trying to read the series of expressions that rippled over Laguna's face as he looked back up — _why couldn't the man keep his feelings to himself—_ Laguna's grin returned, full-force and more certain. "Thanks, I would have missed this one. It's my favorite."

Squall's eyes flicked down to the goofy picture of a moomba lounging under an umbrella next to the words _LIFE'S A BEACH_.

Laguna flung the door all the way open. "Would you like some more? The kitchen stuff's not bad but I have this blend they do in Fisherman's Horizon and— oh, come on in," he waved with his back to Squall, apparently utterly unconcerned with his state of half-dress in front of visiting dignitaries— Squall mentally dug in his heels, _No. Hell no_. He was not going in there. Some kind of clinking noises came from within the suite. He hovered in the hallway, telling himself that it would be rude on the minor-international-incident level to just go and leave the President with his door open onto an empty hallway. _I promised Ellone I'd be nice_.

Too late; Laguna was back with two steaming cups, chattering again already — or still. He pressed the one blessedly free of moronic adornments into Squall's numb hands and propped himself against the doorframe to nurse his own cup, one hip cocked into the lean, the white tank making a long line of his torso. "I already had some on to show Ellone — I was out last time she visited and she teased me, said I was pining and she wanted to know what the big deal was," he laughed a little before finishing, "but she's not up yet." Squall felt faintly dizzy, more than usual for trying to follow Laguna's rambles. He sipped the coffee, automatically— it really _was_ good, nutty and rich; it distracted him for a moment, waking up his frazzled brain a little.

Laguna watched him drink, smiling a little. A slightly serious, almost sad smile, Squall realized, abruptly aware that he was intruding on Laguna's morning as much as Laguna was intruding on his. Laguna gave him a few seconds to appreciate the coffee before prompting, "How was your dinner with her?"

Squall swallowed, feeling vaguely cornered. "...Good."

Laguna's smile, still in place, turned a little... wistful? His eyes were serious, direct. "I know how much she loves you. It's okay if you want to blow off some of this Garden stuff to spend time with her." Laguna regarded him steadily, lips still lightly quirked, nothing of reproach or bitterness in his tone.

And the directness disoriented Squall, again, the morning taking another sharp turn under his feet; he blinked. "Thanks," he found himself saying, and continuing, like Laguna's self-deprecating smile was pulling it out of him, "She wants to see some of you, too."

Laguna considered him for a moment, before saying, hesitant and easy at once, "There's a solution to both problems, you know." And it took Squall a few seconds to realize Laguna meant spending time with _both_ of them, the three of them together. The thought dizzied him and he planted his feet, wide and hard — it should have been presumptuous, pressing, but with Laguna's eyes uninsistent and earnest on him, Laguna's coffee warm in his hands and his tone almost teasing, like _ha ha isn't that a funny suggestion; who would fall for that_ under the evenness of sincerity — outs for Squall either way, layers and layers and Squall realized he was still blinking silently and staring at Laguna's face.

Laguna held up his hands, head tipped down like defeat but smiling still. "Okay. Truce." He looked back up, uneven quirk on his lips. "I don't insist — but let me know, all right?" His eyes were even and calm with the offer. "If you need to make time." And the eyes flicked down to Squall's hands; the grin bloomed full again. "Or more coffee."

And Laguna nodded a farewell and retreated into his suite, sipping his coffee and aiming for what looked like a dress shirt and shoes stacked unevenly half atop each other; Squall could see, through the door that Laguna had left open behind him. His eyes drifted down to the coffee in his hands, and back up to the open doorway in front of him. It was a long morning already.

He finished the coffee quickly, too fast and scalding, and left the mug by the door before walking back down the hall.

  


_________________________________

  


Laguna saw the car pull up just as he was walking the Minister of Finance out to call a cab of his own—convenient, that—and so he waited for Squall to get out and head up to the building. To his surprise, Squall's face was a stony glower— _an expression! Hyne wakes up!_ —and as he walked into the building, he left the two construction company representatives he'd been touring with behind him like dust and smoke.

Whatever they'd done to rankle Squall that badly was nothing he wanted to get involved with, Laguna decided cheerfully, and he gave them a vague, half-insulting salute and closed the Palace door on them.

Squall stood in the lobby, seething; outwardly the only real sign Laguna could see was fists, clenched, but he was radiating anger out of almost every pore, and — "What the hell?" Laguna asked before he could think of any better way to phrase it.

The air came through Squall's teeth so intently Laguna could almost see it hiss into steam as it hit the air; then he watched as Squall swallowed, and tried to swallow all of it, the upset and the emotion and whatever he could—but he failed to catch it all; his face was still grey with it, and Laguna watched his hands clench more tightly as Squall realized he was too mad to hide it.

"They tried to bribe me," Squall said simply, and Laguna made a mental sticky note that apparently this was how Squall looked when angry: the same as always, only _tighter,_ wound stiff with it like a live wire wrapped and tangled in its own devices. "They said maybe if I helped them out they could help me out a little—arrange a place to stay for me and—while it was being built—they were talking about _Rinoa_ -" The words were disjointed; Laguna listened, unsure how Squall's girlfriend fit into all of this mess, fascinated at the steam-anger leaking off of his son.

Squall rubbed a hand over his face, and Laguna froze, because he recognized the same gesture he used, to wipe off his exasperation as if it were something that could be removed by simple friction—had Squall ever seen him do that? What were the chances they'd both develop the same tic so separately? — but then he looked up, resigned and grim and — yes, actually, sardonically, amused despite all of it.

Laguna's lips quirked in a little grin before he could help himself. Apparently it was something of the right gesture—some kind of solidarity, he thought—because Squall shrugged amiably and stood there, almost expectant. The glower still smoked off of him, but it was as if—it was like Laguna was _inside_ it, now, rather than targeted by it: _united in our common enemy?_ It was easier to see Squall's tics here, too, the way his hands clenched and unclenched until Laguna figured every last knuckle on his hands had to be taut and sore.

"Sounds like you need a drink." The words blurted from his mouth unchecked, unfiltered. And yet Squall looked up slowly, and from within his guard Laguna watched one fist tentatively relax—a question. "Kiros and Ellone are probably already knocking back a few—we just finished up _our_ meeting." Would that make it better, a more tempting offer? Or were more people bad? Laguna tamped down on a confused flurry of his own mixed opinions, a nervous selfish urge to snatch this time just for himself. He pitched it casual, just an invite between colleagues: "Wanna come?"

The other fist relaxed, one miniscule flexion of pressure and tension releasing. "Are you at that corner bar?" Squall asked; the words fell foreign from his lips. Laguna wondered if he'd ever gone out after a long day, had a beer (or five), blown off some steam. Squall would probably be excellent at darts. Maybe he would suck at quarters.

"Yeah." He shrugged again. And didn't say anything else; it was tentative between them, and he was afraid to tip the balance either way. What he'd said in the beginning was true—he only wanted Squall to be _Squall_ around him; only wanted him to do whatever _he_ wanted to do.

Squall's lip twitched, and for a second it looked like a tiny little grin of forfeit, sarcastic and dark and appreciative all at once. "I think I need a beer," he said, carefully not looking too much at Laguna, not acknowledging the invite, not even saying yes—but he fell into step beside Laguna, and they threw the doors open together and left the Palace.

"I hope you like cheap beer." Laguna was grinning now, trying to keep it mostly inside. "It's not a fancy place."

"Suits me fine," Squall replied after a long moment of silence—a silence growing comfortable between them. Maybe this was the trick, Laguna thought: conversation with Squall just followed different rules. If you could wait a long time for a very small number of words, and consider the price well worth it.

Laguna found himself eyeing Squall sidelong as they walked, noting all kinds of things, his brain turning haphazardly random in the face of success— _finally! a victory!_ He noted how long Squall's legs were, the way he strode evenly and carefully, pausing for pedestrians rather than swerving. He watched Squall's hands, unclenched but not at all relaxed—was this caution, this awareness, Garden-born? A mercenary trait, the result of long training days and grueling exams? Squall seemed almost unnervingly _ready,_ tense with preparation, as if this alert observance had soaked into his bones and become the default for existence. Or was it something wholly Squall, born from years of walling himself off, defending at all costs, refusing to relax?

This physical awareness was new, and so preoccupying that they almost walked past the door of the pub; and Laguna felt like a right idiot as he stopped, nearly bumping into a young woman with a stroller, his hand reaching out to grab Squall's arm. "Here," he said, and his voice cracked a little on it: forlorn, because for a few short seconds he expected Squall to roll his eyes and huff right on back to the Palace to go be intimate with his console. "This is it."

Squall looked the place up and down, his eyes glinting in—surely that wasn't amusement? "You almost missed it."

"I told you it was a hole in the wall," Laguna said, his mouth running with this sudden rush of nerves, afraid that Squall would change his mind—afraid that he _cared_ too much about it, that he'd make (more of) an ass of himself over this. "I swear, every time I come here, it's dirtier. Must be some kind of camouflage."

Squall's mouth quirked. "Do you bring all your guests here?"

Laguna's hand twitched on the door-handle, because it was a _joke,_ an honest-to-god sense of humor lying dry and crackling beneath the sullen grimace. "Only the ones I want to get drunk," he quipped, and threw the door open. "C'mon. Time for a shot."

He glanced over his shoulder; Squall's face was frozen in a very strange expression, an odd off-center sort of surprised contemplation—but then it wiped clean, replaced with dry stoicism, and Squall followed him into the bar after all.

  


_________________________________

  


That night it was almost like normal, his increasing tendency to hassle his GFs relentlessly dampened by three tall mugs of admittedly terrible beer and a few hours in which Squall had felt awkward as hell, mainly trying to keep conversation going without investing himself in it: engaging with people like that, casual and friendly, _exhausted_ him in a way he didn't understand—battle was easy; talking was hard. Even one person, even — especially? — Laguna, and Squall remembered the uneven mixed rush when they'd seen that Kiros and Ellone had already left, Squall's urge to flee frozen confusedly against thinking _maybe this is easier_ —and he fell into bed feeling drained and empty and strangely, severely _hopeful,_ as if emotional exhaustion would help him sleep better, this time.

The GFs in his head were mostly quiet. They were never _completely_ silent—not to someone who'd spent so much time interfaced with them, intertwined in their existence—and since _Rinoa,_ they had been even less so, as if pricked into a higher state of awareness by whatever side of the magic resided in Squall's own head. But tonight they seemed calm, if not invisible, Shiva's cool murmurs blending with Cerberus' low vibrating hum, a simple wall of white noise Squall was at least used to dealing with. For one odd moment he thought of thanking them, trying to send gratitude in their intangible direction — but he feared the attention would only ruin this strange state of... not-thinking, not-doing, not-feeling. He lay down, the pillow cool against his face, and let himself drift off.

Drifting was a good word; it wasn't so much sleep as a long rest: the feeling of floating, bobbing soft and slow on the tides of it, _Quistis is with him in the ocean, trying to teach him how to swim, even though she is shorter than he is and is having trouble keeping her own head above the waves; all he wants is to go back to shore, because Sis is building a sandcastle and he wants to help._ He felt the low stirring in his mind, and Shiva drifted past in a long slow meteoric spin, brushing his consciousness with that same cold chill — _loud power; soft love—_ the memories stirred in her wake like driftwood after a passing ship, some sinking down into irretrievable depths and others bobbing upwards into the sun.

 _Laguna is leaning over the bar, refilling his own mug from the tap, mostly foam in his glass because he isn't paying attention; trading jests with the bartender easily, making her crack a smile even as the beer-foam overflows and spills all over his fingers. Laguna swears, laughs, and sits back down on his stool, setting the mug of foam down in front of him and letting his foam-soaked hand drip patterns onto the uneven surface of the bar for a few long seconds as Squall watches, enthralled despite himself, despite the way he finds it really obnoxious the way Laguna does everything he wants the way he wants: what will he do now? Laguna lifts the hand, puts his finger to his mouth, and Squall watches his lips suck the foam from it, totally un-self-conscious and completely unaware of the way his tongue flicks out against his own finger, the way his lips—_

 _"This is seriously bad beer," Laguna laughs, and he dabs his wet hand on a stack of napkins and then reaches for the popcorn, and Squall wonders what the hell just happened._

Squall floated, near sleep, his mind tangled up in a GF haze he recognized: when Guardian Forces were left in the mind but untouched, unused, unSummoned, they became restless. This was their way of settling in: tossing memories around, combining them in ways that weren't necessarily real, rearranging them like a dog pawing at its bed and turning around before curling up to rest. Somehow recognizing this made Squall relax, finally, into the familiarity of that; Cerberus shifted low and subtly and Squall drifted off into it, this rest-not-rest, because it was better than dreaming and far better than lying awake thinking about _Rinoa._

Instead he thought about _Laguna,_ which might have been strange under full consciousness but here, sprawled out beneath Shiva's star-wheeling chill and tucked up against Cerberus' sleeping warmth, it was almost... pleasant; a part of Squall, tranced-out and lazy, was deeply amused that Laguna seemed so much more attractive in the abstract. Something knocked itself, loose, and Squall watched himself at breakfast, Laguna debriefing him on all the vendors: _these ones are gonna push you for the first site, but just put on your grumpy face and tell them nothing's been decided — yeah, that face, good work!... I am going to assume you are wearing it as an example and not for me. Moving on._ He'd looked so eager, and serious with it; Squall finally had to admit to himself that Laguna's bumbling manner and goofy grins hid actual competence.

No, hid was the wrong word: the goofy parts of Laguna were _part_ of that competence, right alongside his uncannily accurate way of reading people down to the bone after a single conversation and his ability to cut right to the center of an issue — he did it all cheerfully, which was something Squall couldn't fathom but was beginning to admire, a begrudging understanding of the man's motives growing somewhere in the back of his brain.

It wasn't that Laguna put on a show — he simply had an understanding of every single situation that struck on multiple levels, from the most shallow and silly to the deepest and most subtle motivations. And he did it simultaneously, without disturbing a single hair — and could with one action make headway on multiple levels as well.

Squall wondered how Laguna had developed this skill, and whether it was the kind of thing that could be learned. His mind drifted; he imagined Laguna, in early meetings, listening to droning committee members and painstakingly taking the kind of notes a teenager did, color-coded with circles over the _'i_ 's. _He handed the page to Kiros, who shook his head even as he smiled; Ward looked at the notes, and whuffed a half-laugh, and typed YOU'RE AN IDIOT into his tablet and passed it around (at least Ward knows what's up). But Kiros just laughed, and Laguna shook his head (his hair used to be longer? Huh.) as he stood up, stretching, feeling every minute of that meeting along his spine (man, he needs to stretch more (Rinoa used to rub—))_

He flickered awake at the thought of Rinoa, a leap of panic in his chest, but there was nothing — no flare of alarm and fear from the Bond, just the same white-noise buzz it had been spurting and spitting for days. Cerberus shifted, the sense of something curling up in his brain, memories tossed like leaves as the Guardian rearranged himself to comfort. Squall closed his eyes again, leaning back into that sense of calm slowly, strangely still feeling the stiffness in his back. It reminded him of...

 _(Rinoa used to rub those knots out after long days.) He leaned forward in the chair as Kiros' fingers turned heavy circles on his neck, the pressure grinding out the soreness of the day, his thumbs pushing slowly until the sudden release of it made Laguna exhale, sharply; Kiros chuckled, and his hands pressed and released again, fingertips leaving hot spots along the skin of his nape—_

Squall's eyes blinked drearily open, and then drifted shut again. He wasn't sure why the thought of a neck massage sounded so appealing — the pain in his back had been imagined, the product of a long day of meetings and a GF's dream-making spiral, but suddenly he thought of Laguna behind him at the bar, one hand gently rubbing relief into the knot in Squall's shoulder, Squall's head sagging lower as the stress seeped out of him; _relax, Laguna said, and Squall felt himself drift off..._

Shiva spun a slow sparkling circle of twinkling ice above him, and it fell like shooting stars, and Squall sank into sleep.

  


_________________________________

  


Laguna kicked at the couch cushion, trying to settle it closer to the couch and plump it up properly, the way Ellone liked it: sitting on the floor with her legs tucked up, plate in her lap. He wished they had more time today, dammit, but he really had to get those technological collaboration project people all pointed in the same direction — hell, even extracting the summaries from them for the bid proposal had been a nightmare; he'd have to keep an eye on them when he could finally present them to Squall, that should be really interesting — but at least he could snatch a little time now for a quick breakfast with Elle. He was getting so few chances to see her, this visit, though she was at least spending some time with Squall, which he didn't begrudge but— but it made him wistful anyway, which made him cranky, so he gave the cushion another, entirely unnecessary kick on his way to the phone to check on the service — shouldn't breakfast have arrived by now?

A knock on the door — _finally!_ — he changed course to get it, anticipating food or maybe Ellone, swinging it open with friendly harping ready for the staff, or greetings ready for Elle— only to find his doorway filled with Ellone, and Kiros, and Ward, _and_ breakfast, and this sudden assault of _good things_ stopped up his mouth for a second with awareness of how much he _wanted_ this, suddenly. Kiros was saying something to Ellone, voice dying at the opening of the door, and Ward towered smiling behind them, and they all turned to look at him and Hyne he must _really_ be stressed if something so simple could get to him like this—

"Hi. Uh. Everyone. Hi! Get in here!" He grinned, shooing them all inside.

"I ran into them in the halls and asked them to come, too," Ellone explained, almost breathlessly; Laguna knew how much these things meant to hear, this warm inclusive glow of the family they'd chosen, and his grin slid into a smile, less frenetic and more feeling, for her.

"I can finish the collab project notes later," Kiros said, setting down the two plates he carried ( _waffles_ , simply _soaked_ in syrup, god he loved _everything_ right now), "and Ward says he wouldn't miss this for the world."

Ward's lips twisted up as he set down his own plates, tablet tucked under his arm; Laguna squeezed his shoulder for a moment. "Of course."

Ellone found the cushion waiting for her on the floor and laughed, delight flashing across her features, and warmth bubbled in Laguna's belly, floating outward until he didn't feel so damn heavy and _tired_ as he watched her settle down on the floor; Kiros perched on Laguna's desk, and Ward distributed himself across the couch and its remaining cushions and it was almost perfect except for how Laguna didn't even have the time to sit down and how there was an empty space left in the armchair and— and he thought of Squall at the bar last night and thought, maybe— _haha. Well._ He grabbed the plate Kiros had deposited for him, and stuffed the first quarter of the waffle in his mouth. His eyes rolled up at the taste; the morning could _definitely_ wait for him to appreciate this for just a few seconds. God, he loved being President sometimes. Presidents got the _good_ waffles.

Kiros was grinning at him when he opened his eyes again. "Hedonist," he accused.

"Don't _you_ start." Laguna jabbed a finger in his direction. "The things I could say about you and y—"

Ward drummed his fingers on the endtable, and angled his tablet so Laguna could see, smile crooked over the display: _LADY PRESENT_.

"That's right," Kiros said, eyes crinkling. "We're in polite company." He gave a little half-bow in Ellone's direction from his hip-cocked perch on the desk; her laugh tinkled through the air.

"Outmaneuvered!" Laguna cried: maximum drama. "I guess I'll just go ahead and keep getting ready to _get out of here_." He snatched up his tie from where he'd abandoned it on his desk at some point. Kiros rolled his eyes, mouth too full of his own breakfast to bite back. "Where did I put that collab project budget thing?" he muttered, trying to knot his tie and look around at the same time.

Ward tapped a stack of papers on the end table by the couch. "Aha! Thanks, Ward."

Kiros swallowed the bacon he'd been working on. "Weren't you supposed to finish those last night?"

Laguna stopped with one hand on the papers and another on his tie; swallowed. "Uh. Haha. I kind of. Showed Squall the bar yesterday."

"Really?" Ellone breathed; she wiped her mouth with one of the napkins, blinking up at him— something overeager in her eyes, disproportionate even to what Laguna knew she wanted for Squall and he blinked, for a second— "Oh— you must have just missed me and Kiros when we went to the night market! Did he— How did it go?" Laguna swallowed again, because he knew what she was asking and— _hell_ , he didn't even know; the thought crept up on him, again, the possibility of Squall being right _here_ , with them all.

"He... he thought the beer was really bad."

Ellone made a face at him, and above her Ward flashed a good-natured glower and his tablet: _LAGUNA_. "Come on, Uncle Laguna. What happened?"

"We just. Drank a little. Talked. A little. Decompressed, mostly." He was restless, suddenly; he wanted more of that decompression, end-of-the-day release of tension, not this morning rush — he loved how he could share the time, if not all of his attention but... He picked up the papers and flicked through them, absently, as he hurried over to his blazer and started shrugging it on. "He seemed stressed," Laguna commented unthinkingly from inside the tangle of jacket sleeves. "More than usual, I mean." He frowned, remembering the furrow between Squall's eyebrows, growing less deep but never quite vanishing; some idiotically _old_ part of him commenting inside, _he is going to get wrinkles from doing that_. He drifted closer to his plate again, eying the waffle as he tried to get his elbows to coordinate with the sleeves.

"Did he... say why?" Ellone asked, hesitant and uncertain and— a little hopeful? Guilty? Dammit, Laguna was usually better at reading people than this; what was going on?

Then his brain caught up with Ellone's question instead of her tone and, "Well," he laughed, nervous and dark, "no, he's _SqualI._ He doesn't really confide his problems to me." He crammed more of the now-cooling waffle in his mouth, like he was trying to stop himself saying any more on that front.

Ellone chewed on her lip; her hands were playing with the edges of the couch cushion, where the texture was most interesting, but her eyes were still on him, worried and sad and Laguna didn't know when the air had gone so hollow, this thing hanging between them like a private grief.

"Ward's right." Kiros's voice broke through the heavy moment. "At least he went with you at all." Laguna glanced at Ward; if he'd written anything Laguna couldn't see it now, but he was smiling, broad and gentle.

"We should come next time," Ellone said, sitting up a little on her cushion and Laguna remembered thinking of the keys Ellone held, the way Squall unfolded and opened around her and maybe— maybe—

"Yeah," he said. "Next time, all together."

"One big happy family," Kiros said, smiling and light, and Ward lifted a spoonful of oatmeal into the air like a toast.

"Hear, hear," Laguna echoed, spearing the last of his waffle and saluting with it; Ellone grinned and offered up her bowl of cereal, two-handed and mock-solemn.

He chewed on the last of his waffle as he maneuvered into his shoes and the others consummated their own toasts, the thoughts rising inside him and popping like bubbles: Squall with everyone else, like this; Squall and him alone at the bar... Laguna hopped back over to his papers in one shoe, still trying to get the other on, unbalanced for an entirely different reason as the bright melancholy warmth of the first thought mixed with the lower, buzzing warmth of the second; the waffle had gone cold in his mouth and he didn't know how he could feel so grateful-happy and disappointed-sour at once.

Laguna took a big breath, the shoes finally on and the papers in his hand. "All right. Time to go herd scientists."

Kiros and Ward collected themselves on cue; Ellone stood up more slowly, her face distracted and thoughtful. "Thanks for the breakfast, Uncle Laguna," she said.

"Anytime," he said, and meant it, so hard, as he looked around at them all together here, with him.

  


_________________________________

  


Ellone picked at the cartons strewn across the coffee table, piling a little bit of everything on her plate; she was never sure what she'd like the best, and Squall had been unusually extravagant with his order this time, taking advantage of Laguna's absence (a private and unavoidable crisis on one of the borders—probably Cry-related—had canceled their other dinner plans) and whatever standing credit he had with Esthar to order practically half the take-out menu. Ellone had then taken advantage of the situation to come down to Squall's room in her jammies, and Squall had laughed at her and adamantly refused to get into his own—and it was just like it should have been: the two of them up late with a bottle of pilfered wine and junk food and secrets.

Squall's room was new and overly furnished, and Ellone loved the way it only whispered at her, remnants of its past guests faded into the new wall-hangings and absurdly ugly couch, no memories here except Squall's—and she was doing her best to not delve into those too deeply: keeping her fingers distracted with the savory flavors in front of her, and her mind occupied with Squall-in-the-present.

She'd watched the lines on his face fade with his first glass of wine and plate of (absurdly, in her opinion) spicy noodles; he was now what passed for relaxed in Squall's world, an almost detached attention to his surroundings, an awareness that became automatic rather than active. He refilled his glass, then hers, and then frowned at the bottle: "Are we going to want more?"

Ellone shrugged, feeling extravagant and wasteful and wicked, here in this room with her foster brother and her slippers. "Why not? Let's call room service."

Squall arched a brow. "Room service?"

"Call a guard." She wiggled her slippered feet in the direction of the phone. "Have him bring us more."

"You do it." He sat back in his chair, looking shyly smug, and Ellone was amused and saddened simultaneously at his attempts: brotherly, familiar, and yet not-quite-automatic. Squall was _trying,_ though.

"Fine," she huffed, and shuffled her way across the room to phone Kiros, who she knew wouldn't turn her down. Three minutes later, a very bland-faced gentleman showed up at Squall's door with a four-bottle selection of Esthar's finest: _bless_ Kiros. Ellone crowed victory and took all four, carrying them carefully to the minibar. She glanced over her shoulder—Squall was, as she expected, checking his console again—and, on a whim, set the bottles down and then wrapped her hands around the first one.

 _The rustle of a cart, and an old man's voice, muttering the price._ The next: _silks, and the crook of her arm as she carried it into the grand room;_ the third was nothing but _machines, grinding, as he wiped sweat off his brow._ The fourth sang, _the tinkling and unsure notes of her daughter's voice as she tucked this away,_ and for some reason Ellone liked that best. She popped the cork with fervor.

Squall turned at the sound, and his eyeroll was exasperated but friendly. Their hands glanced as he took his glass, and _faint white buzzing lulling him to sleep_ — the shock prompted her to ask: "So, where is Rinoa?"

Squall's glower told her she had asked an interesting question. "She's in Timber."

No further information seemed forthcoming, so Ellone mused aloud, twirling her glass in her fingers. "I haven't seen her in so long. How is she?"

Squall's blink seemed to last a second too long, as if he were closing his eyes, and Ellone caught a flash of _fire, wings, drowning_ before his eyes opened again and she wondered if he had just _checked_ —but then he sighed, and downed a little more wine than usual. "She's... okay." He said the words as if they meant something, and his eyes flashed to the console, and Ellone was suddenly deeply curious.

"Are you two... okay?"

For a second Squall looked down into his glass and Ellone could see the walls closing in around him, the bland stone look appearing on his face- but his eyes looked tired, and she found herself urging silently, _no, Squall, come on, please talk to me..._ He swallowed, and she saw his fingers tense around the glass like clasps. "Yes and no," he said, slowly, and it was like he was taking so much time to choose the words and Ellone wondered: had he ever really talked to anyone like this? "We're... taking a break."

"Oh." The word gasped out of her unintentionally, and she felt immediately stupid for it: "Sorry, I—I'm sorry, Squall. That's hard." And it explained so much of the tension he was carrying around in the set of his shoulders, the way it took him a fraction of a second too long to smile at anything. "Are you alright?"

"Mostly." The word—and the shrug that accompanied it—contained multitudes, shades of longing and anger and stubborn pride and love wrapped up in one word, and Ellone couldn't help but flinch at the smattering of scenes that accompanied it: _dark hair across a pillow—the curve of a shoulder—standing in the water, the sea tugging at his ankles like chains—watching her across the room, her arms wrapped about herself, wanting to hug her—close the door in her face—yell—cry—static across the Bond, a sound like glass shattering in his ears over and over—_

She shook her head, trying to clear her ears; her hands gripped each other, looking for grounding.

"I'm more—" Squall paused, breath inhaled, looking for words, and Ellone waited. "I'm worried about her," he admitted. "Timber is... volatile. There was an attack, and she was there. There could be another one any day. I hate not being... able to do anything about it."

"Do you usually go with her?" Ellone winced at the glower that darkened his face—obviously the wrong thing to ask—and she fumbled for another question. "Is anyone there with her?"

"She has Quistis as a bodyguard." Squall glanced again at the console, and then added reluctantly, "...and she has the Owls." It left a strange bitter taste in the air, and Ellone shook her hair into her face preemptively to block whatever memories the thought had released, because there was something important here, _now,_ if she could just stay in this moment long enough to figure out a way to help Squall.

"Do you want me to go?" The words came out of nowhere, surprising even Elle—but she thought about them, considered them. If things weren't right between Squall and Rinoa, he couldn't go to check on her, but maybe having someone close to him go would be an acceptable alternative. Squall's head jerked up, as if he hadn't even really thought of it before. She could see his counterarguments flashing in his eyes, his face steady and even (so unlike Laguna, whose expressions would have blabbed it all before he opened his mouth).

She held up a hand. "I know I'm not much in the tough defense department, but that's why she has Quistis, right? I could go make sure she's doing okay after the attack. Have you talked to her?" His face shuttered, and she winced again, saying all the wrong things— _wait._ She closed her eyes, and breathed, gently, and _Rinoa, looking up at him, her cheek leaned against his hip and her eyes full of tears_ —and then she stopped, because this felt too voyeuristic, Squall's raw pain cutting across the room.

"I don't mind," she added, her voice sounding very small. "I like traveling."

Squall opened his hands in his lap, as if the answers were written there—and _god,_ this was _so much_ like Uncle Laguna, the way his brow crinkled when he was thinking hard, his fingers twitching imperceptibly—how did Squall still not see it? Ellone—panicked, her chest churning—should she tell him _now?_ She could just _say it,_ blurt it out and see what happened—

Squall looked up, and looked her directly in the eye. "I think..." He swallowed. "If you don't mind. Would you go?"

The blankness of the air whisked past her, the absence of a breeze, and Ellone realized how hard this was for Squall by that alone: the absence of memories, nothing whispering to her across space-time. Had he never _asked for help_ before? Probably not; he'd built himself self-dependent, independent, a machine made to work alone.

"Of course," she said, and she smiled at him, making it easy. "That's what family's _for,_ you big dummy."

Squall froze for a second, a caterchipillar in headlights, and Ellone opened her mouth to flail something into the awkward space—but then he just took another sip of wine and said, "Thank you," and that was really all they needed to say about that.

Silence passed between them, golden and rich.

"So," Ellone said, pitching her voice to sound serious. "Who do you think is the cutest councilman?"

Squall choked on his wine, looked up— _the peal of a girl's laughter; the tug of the sea; rain, falling, alone_ —and then his mouth flattened into a dry frown and he threw a pillow at her.

  


_________________________________

  


 _Rinoa spun, her skirts flaring out around her knees; her laughter twinkled like the stars above them, bright but shattering in its briefness. She tilted towards him, and pointed a finger upwards, her head tipped playfully; the stars spun and sang, bright-wheeling, cold pricking his skin and wrapping round his wrists like rope. He extended his arms and she took his hands, pulling him forward, and her laugh lit the night: fireworks burst above them, and Rinoa laughed harder, and at her laugh bright starry flower-blossoms bloomed across the sky in lines like a spell-rune. She dropped his hands and threw her hands upwards, and suddenly the bursts of twinkling light were fire, explosions, things in space—remnants of the space station, bursting into metallic flames, and Rinoa laughed as it burned and wrote her name across the sky—_

(Rinoa!)

 _She turned, throwing him a very sultry glance over her shoulder, and then turned back to face the piano; her dress darkened into red, and she flicked one carefully-curled lock of hair over her shoulder before her hands landed on the keys, slender fingers gracing the surfaces, not yet pressing down, simply sliding across the top like the lightest touch along skin, and he could feel it down his spine, her feather-light touch tracing intricate patterns along his shoulderblades_. (Rinoa plays, but—) _A hand on his knee, and Kiros leaned in, smile just teasing the edge of his lips: "I think that look was for you, soldier..."_

 _He laughed, the chuckle bubbling up warm from his belly_ (she looks so much like her mother) _, and signaled to the waiter; "Can— Can I send a drink to Julia, please? Wine, yeah, white..."_

(Rinoa? Is this... you?)

 _She laughed, and sat up; the straps of her dress fell from one shoulder, champagne-pale against her skin; she scrabbled at it with lazy fingers, pulling it back up. Squall leaned forward and tasted her shoulder, first with his lips and then tongue; Rinoa laughed, and pulled the other strap off her shoulder; he trailed kisses from right to left across her back, tasting her wings beneath the skin, buzzing and white and eager. Her hair swept his face, and he gathered it in his hands, piling it atop her head—_

 _—and she removed the pins, laughing, dark curls tumbling down, sharp against the red satin. "Laguna," she said, laughing, and as she shook her head curls bounced cheerfully from her cheeks; "I'm sure it looks awful—"_

Shiva hissed laughter, bright and cold, and Squall's eyes flew open like sparks from a fire, the sudden burst of awareness-heat-lust fading as quickly as it had risen. He stared at the ceiling, gasping air shock-cold into his lungs and unaware of —what he had been feeling: surprise? Excitement? Dismay? There was nothing there now, just a vast quiet emptiness: no Rinoa, not even Shiva, just a silence that rose within him and stared back.

  


_________________________________

  


The knock on the door was the last thing he wanted to hear; Laguna dropped the stack of folders on his desk with emphasis, and then hissed a curse; he'd just made it obvious that he _was_ in here. No hiding under the desk until they left, then. He swallowed a groan. It had been a long and grueling day, and more importantly Squall had agreed to come out that night—grudgingly, of course, glowering at it but with that smirk in his eye that meant he was enjoying everyone's tentative joking. He wanted to file all of these folders—preferably under "L" for "Less Important Than Beer"—not get caught up in a politically tricky conversation with someone's accounting secretary who felt overlooked and underpaid.

A second knock. He exhaled, gathered all the patience he could find, and opened the door.

Ellone smiled, her eyes crinkling. "Hey, Uncle Laguna. Ready to go?"

His heart lifted at the sight of her, papers and folders forgotten. "Almost, Ellie-Elle. Can you wait a second?"

"Sure." Her smile turned vague as she entered the room, her hands coming to clasp together in front of each other, almost nervously—Laguna froze, and looked closer. She idled along the side of the room, her fingers brushing against various things: a book, translating phrases of old Centran; a picture frame, he and Kiros and Ward in their uniforms; a folder of printed spreadsheets from yesterday's meeting. Her eyes flickered open and closed and his throat tightened, because she looked _distant,_ and he remembered opening the door of Odine's lab and seeing her eyes: old, ancient, multitudes of eons so far away it took her five minutes to recognize his white, terrified face.

She pressed her palm to his file cabinet, the one he'd inherited from the last three Presidents—and straightened, chirping. "Oh, um. Uncle Laguna. I'm going to go to Timber for a few days, I think."

"Oh?" This caught his attention; he glanced up from his sorting. "What's up?"

Her hands twisted in each other like birds caught. "You heard about the latest bombing, right?"

Laguna frowned. He'd been receiving conflicting briefs from three of his secretaries: Galbadia had done it, Timber had done it, an independent group of terrorists was behind it; a bomb had blown up a crowd, a weapon had malfunctioned, there had been a riot. He hadn't had time to make sense of it, with all his attention on Squall. "Yeah, kind of."

"Rinoa's there." Ellone's voice lilted, and Laguna looked up more sharply this time. Her eyes were distant, locked on something he couldn't see—and then she shook her head and smiled. "Squall... well, he didn't _ask_ me to go." Her smile turned meaningful, and Laguna shrugged in sympathy. "But I think he would like someone to be there. I told him I'd go and make sure she's okay."

A thousand things poked his brain at this—were Squall and Rinoa not talking? Were they okay? Was Squall's eternal crankiness due to something other than his loathing of Laguna— _hey, am I doing better than I think I am?_ and yet — Ellone's eyes flickered, and he stepped around from the desk, putting a hand on her elbow. "Elle. Are you alright?"

She blinked up at him, and her smile dimmed. "Yeah." She sighed. "Sorry. It's just..." The words died, and Laguna tasted emptiness on his tongue as he waited, breath caught, a strange paternal fear clutching his chest. "Sometimes, time catches up with me." Her head-shake was slow, her gaze focused mid-air, and Laguna remembered the first time she'd sent _him_ back, weirdly staggering around as an old man he'd later found was Ellone's grandfather. He'd thought it was the ghosts of Winhill, the same way he'd thought Squall, his companions, and his Guardians were faeries; so much of Ellone's power was like that, a fairy-tale's one grain of truth centered in a girl who lived on a boat. Even that sounded like a fairy-tale, Laguna thought, the kind he'd tell his children... except that the daughter of his heart was already the protagonist, and the son he didn't know would correct the fantasy, drawing military fact-lines through all the illustrations.

She sighed, and said, "It's been worse, lately," and Laguna's heart stopped—beat twice, sharp, in his chest, suddenly and strangely reminding him how _old_ he was (not that old!) and the look on his face must have been awful because Ellone laughed, twinkling. "It isn't bad. Please don't worry. It just ...takes some getting used to, some days."

"What can I— can I do anything for you?" He wasn't sure what he could offer—he'd dealt with a Sorceress, yes, learned her ways inside and out and realized in the end that a simple trick would work better than an elaborate plan because Adel was too used to thinking in galaxies, not minutes—but Ellone wasn't a Sorceress; she lived in the grey areas around that kind of magic, and as much as Laguna had traveled and interviewed and seen he'd never met another person who could do what she did. "Anything. Do you need help? I can call in specialists. Make a task force!" Although he didn't even know whether that would help, whether anyone in the world had any idea what to do with Ellone's gifts; what sort of task force would it be, a group of women and men who sat and asked the same questions that rang in Ellone's head every day and every night?

The thought must have occurred to her too, because she tilted her head and grinned. "Come to the bar, Uncle Laguna. Seriously. I'm alright, and the thing that'll help me most right now is a daquiri."

The stack of folders was suddenly so much less important. "Daquiri it is, then! Hyne knows my Elle needs her medicine." She made a face, half-amused and half-embarrassed, and he took her elbow, locking the door behind them.

  


_________________________________

  


The tap on his shoulder jerked Squall out of his half-reverie — it was half-thinking and half-exhaustion, really, because his nights had been less than restful lately, with the Bond and his Guardians spitting static and scenes at each other in a way that had him morosely reluctant to go to bed in the first place. He glanced up, and Ellone's playful smile tricked a reply from his own lips before he'd really registered her presence.

She held out the set of orange darts. "Your turn."

"You lost?"

"Oh! No." Ellone shook her head, and the smile turned delightfully evil for a second as she turned to look across the room. "Laguna lost, again."

"Please do not let Squall play," Laguna said, craning his head to look in their direction. "He is the Dart King and we will be here for hours trying to knock him off of his Dart Pedestal so that we can all go home."

Ellone simply smiled more and brandished the darts at Squall again. He thought about refusing — he didn't want to get up and throw bright-orange darts at this neon dartboard, filling the room with electronic bird chirps every time he struck. But he also didn't want to sit here alone with his thoughts and his beer and his Guardians, and the memories of his dreams, red-hot and _all too real,_ hands on his skin— Abruptly he stood up.

"Prepare to be beaten soundly," Laguna said, and there was real satisfaction in his voice. "I hope you like the taste of losing."

"Better than the taste of that beer," Ellone chirped. She was drinking something pink with a flower stuck into it, after having firmly refused every beer bought for her. This meant Kiros had already consumed eight, by Squall's half-hearted count; the tally, earlier, had been helping keep his thoughts occupied.

This— wasn't really enough, Squall thought, as he tossed the first dart; his brain was still flickering back and forth between here and his mind's-eye, between the present and the dreams that might have been the past and might have just been magical static; between this bar and _Timber,_ the other end of this Bond that kept surging magical interference his way. He tossed the second dart with force, angry at his lack of self-control. The third hit the bull's-eye.

"Squall," Laguna pronounced, "I am convinced that you cheat."

He snorted, and took a pull of his beer. "How so?"

Laguna's eyes twinkled, half at the response and half at getting _any_ sort of response. "I have figured it out. Guardian Forces. Ha!" He pointed an unsteady finger at Squall; Kiros, who had admittedly had twice the beer, nevertheless reached up a steadying hand. "Unfair advantage."

Squall raised an eyebrow, because of course his GFs were unJunctioned now — he assumed it was behind his difficulty sleeping — but as he opened his mouth to explain the difference between carrying a GF and Junctioning one, he heard Laguna say: "So give me one, buddy."

The room seemed to pause for a moment, slowing down immensely, and in the extended moment Squall met Laguna's eyes and had enough time to think, _why would he—?_ as Laguna's gaze burned into his own, the look a challenge and a promise and warmth, too, pooling in Squall's belly and—

"Ooh, yes!" Ellone clapped her hands, and handed her blue darts to Laguna. "Go ahead. It'll be fun to watch you lose again."

"Such trash talk. Where did you learn this attitude." Laguna stood up, clumsily, and accepted the darts. "Young lady, someone should wash your mouth out with soap." He fumbled the darts into his left pocket and turned to face Squall. "How do we, uh, do this?"

Squall's face felt hot as he stared for a minute because this, this was _wrong,_ this was a _bad idea,_ and it was also very much frowned upon to give a Guardian Force to a civilian in a non-combat situation, his brain was repeating the regs _right now_ in a strange monotone that buzzed in the background—and an even worse idea to give one to a _politician:_ his mouth was dry and he swallowed against it, his throat sticking in uneasy yet eager anticipation. "Here," he said, grudgingly, damning whatever instinct had him agreeing to this rather than saying _no, hell no, fuck no_. But eyes were on him, and Ellone's laugh, and Laguna's eyes, warm and pleased and approving— He held up a hand, palm facing Laguna.

Bemused, Laguna reached out, his smile becoming so decidedly and visibly quirked that Squall almost snatched his hand back from the awkward bubble: tightening around them slowly, the air rushing away, until it felt like that moment in space, all his limbs and movements muffled in airless silence. For a minute nothing happened, and Laguna's smile twisted itself upright, amused.

Then Squall sighed, and closed his eyes, and gently tugged at his GFs with what he hoped was a distinct air of apologetic annoyance.

To his surprise, it was Shiva who rose, cold sparking showers of white behind his eyes as she slipped upwards, and he felt the undeniable chill of her laughter down his back like pinpricks as she surged through him and into Laguna. The press of their hands together lit up, suddenly, so cold it burned, the sensation of Laguna's palm against his filling Squall's entire body with a tingling feeling like lightning, building from the base of his spine; Laguna jerked and clasped Squall's hand, and the friction of the movement sent delicious spikes of sensation through Squall. He wrapped his fingers around Laguna's almost instinctively, grasping at the sturdy, heady feeling of it, and Shiva laughed bright-cold charm at them both, oddly pleased.

"Wh— woah." Laguna stumbled back and their grip loosened, broke; Squall felt the — whatever it was — fade into a dull Junctioning headache. He felt suddenly chilled, lonely, and he shook his head because that was _stupid_ and mentally poked at Cerberus a little more angrily than necessary.

 _This is the stupidest thing I've ever done for a game of darts._

Cerberus grumbled, half sleepy and half indignant, and Squall got a very distinct sense of _kid, you're on your own for this shit_ as he dragged the GF out of the dark depths of his consciousness and fit his Junctions into place. The sensation was heady on top of the alcohol, and he breathed in sharply as Cerberus snapped things here and there: it wasn't battle-ready by any means, it wasn't even worthy of a cadet, and Squall snorted at this deliberate expression of annoyance and opened his eyes.

Laguna looked —breathless, dizzy with something more than the drinking. He looked up at Squall and this look was — strangely solemn, almost apologetic; except it was carrying a distinct air of amusement, and something else besides, heavy in the air. Laguna's pupils were wide, and he looked surprised, his mouth caught in a wide ‘o' — and then he smiled, rueful, and the moment was broken into strangely tangible pieces. "These things were a lot easier to handle when I was in shape. This might end up being an unsuccessful winning strategy."

"I could have told you," Squall murmured, but it was the wrong thing to say; it came out strangely intimate, his face flushing with the words and how the corners of Laguna's mouth quirked up in that way that was totally private, somehow, just the two of them in this bar full of people and space.

Ellone whistled, and somehow that made it —wrong, that she was watching with that light in her eyes, all too pleased, innocent, and Squall hunched his shoulders away from Laguna to break this thing they were sharing; his hands fisted, and the darts bit into his skin, finally shattering this strange, GF-and-Laguna-induced haze.

"Darts." It came out as a word, not a sentence, and Squall bit his tongue—what the _hell_ was his problem? But Laguna visibly shook himself, and straightened, throwing his shoulders back in a way that suddenly made him look younger again, and Squall shivered at the memory: _looking into the mirror, squaring his shoulders and admiring the way the uniform—_

"Alright, my boy," Laguna said, clapping a hand on Squall's shoulder, "let's play some damn darts."

Squall squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, because he could _focus_ on darts, rather than this strange wavering feeling that permeated the air like steam, hot and sticky. "Someone," he managed to say, a little less than a croak, "please get me another beer."

  


_________________________________

  


 _The air was sticky-hot, the collar of his uniform chafing uncomfortably_ (at least I didn't wear that stupid tie) _and his feet were sweaty in these boots. He dropped his bag gratefully to the ground_ (be careful, moron, you might break something) _and sighed, trying to exhale some of this heat, the sweltering feeling of being trapped, even his skin unable to breathe._

 _"Laguna," Kiros hissed_ (not again?) _and he turned, and Kiros grabbed his arm and—stumbling down a hill, stones crinkling—a blur of time, and then before him was a wide-open pool of water, secluded, looking crisp and cool and inviting and he'd already thrown his jacket to the ground and loosened his belt before he heard Kiros laughing, warm and rich as the day._

 _"What are you waiting for?"_

 _"Admiring the view." Dark eyes sparkled at him, and he would have felt self-conscious except the trickle of sweat down his back was more annoying than anything and damn, there was water right there._

 _"Where's Ward? It's hot as hell."_

 _Kiros laughed and finally started to unbutton his jacket. "Up flirting with the new captain. I'm sure he's hot too, but she's hotter." The trickle of the small waterfall, and only the sound of the rustling fall of clothing, and Laguna felt peace begin to creep along his skin, an oddly active sense of it. He glanced over at Kiros and then, daring, pulled the tank off over his head, because hell, if it was just the two of them..._

 _Kiros raised an eyebrow, all appreciative, and Laguna felt a hot shiver start from the base of his spine upwards._

 _"Get in the water, Loire," all silky-smooth like cream, and Laguna chuckled as he waded in: "Who made you the commanding officer?" God, that was nice, perfectly cool but not cold, and he splashed some up into his face, feeling it trickle through his hair and down his back._

 _The trickle turned cold, suddenly, a breeze from nowhere causing goosebumps and chills and_ Squall jerked awake, suddenly, shivering with it, warmth in his belly and bone-chilling cold along his spine.

 _Shiva._ The Guardian declined to answer, instead spinning a wide white circle around Squall's brain and tossing up another memory: _Laguna came up for air, and Kiros' mouth was there—gasping into it, distracting—demanding, the water trickling down his back—hands, running up his arms—_

 _What the hell._ Squall shoved Shiva farther down in his subconscious, wondering whether it would even do anything—he knew it had been a colossal mistake to lend Laguna that GF, because now she wouldn't leave him alone, and whether these were memories of Laguna's she'd consumed and brought back to him or concoctions of her own, he didn't know and _didn't care_ ( _Quistis would write a paper on this if she knew)_. For now he tried to tamp down on the static in his brain, breathing in a slow ordered pattern and not-thinking. Tomorrow he'd find some kind of training range or a Cry monster or even a damn open field and summon them both, properly, and maybe that would please them enough to shut them up for a while.

Stupid Guardians. Cerberus grumbled affectionately in his direction and it made him think of Rinoa, the way she'd try to buffer away his bad moods with charm and cutesy cheer, and Shiva threw Laguna at him again—Squall stood up and went over to his console, to go through all of his mail for the fourth time. Maybe he would finally reply to one of Zell's pleas for help.

It wasn't like he was going to sleep, tonight.

  


_________________________________

  


Ellone settled in on the train easily, her small frame fitting snug and _mostly_ comfortable into the seat; she curled up, a little, as much as the space would let her, and rested her forehead against the glass of the window, gazing outside. The windowpane was cool and there were wisps of fog rising around the Esthar train station, like ghosts hissing from concrete. She let her eyes go soft, focused on nothing, and simply _breathed._

She loved traveling, and she loved it for all the reasons a little girl from a town like Winhill would love it — seeing the world, the big bright city, learning experiences and photographic tableaus — but to Ellone it was _more,_ also: traveling itself hushed the murmurs in her mind, loosening her connection to the interweaving cobwebs of time.

It could have been the motion of traveling itself, the forward velocity pinning her into the frame of reference of _now,_ the movement of so much mass over so much distance making it impossible for her powers to latch on to any past other than her own. It could have been the publicness of travel: she preferred to travel with people, because large crowds were so overwhelming her mind could _disconnect,_ flickering from one light faded memory to the next in a way more like daydreaming than past-seeing. So many people had been on this train, sat in this seat: the memories the fabric and floor had of them all were blurred, a faint wash of color against a calming gray backdrop.

It could have been the simple case of being surrounded by _metal,_ overworked and overhandled to the point where memories _slipped_ from it, like rain off the shield of one of the knights Uncle Laguna had played so long ago. Ellone thought of the White SeeD ship, the soothing feeling of bobbing on the sea, metal-hull and water both too malleable and unalive to hold anything of time other than their own existence. Her dreams on the _Whyt_ often hadn't been pleasant, but they had always been _clean,_ her own, untarnished by _connecting_ unless she had deliberately summoned it up into her brain and her fingers.

Whatever it was, she loved the feeling, because for a few hours as the train rolled across the sea and land and sky she could pretend she was just another girl with bad dreams. It had never been easy to control and had become less so since Time Compression; Ellone thought, darkly, that one could only tangle one's fingers in the fabric-threads of time itself so many times before one started to unravel.

She barely noticed as the train pulled out of the station and started its journey to Timber.

  


_________________________________

  


 _The sheets were cool and crisp on his stomach as those hands, rough and strong and familiar_ (but that isn't Rinoa) _, kneaded the tensions from his lower back, knuckle by knuckle pressing into sore muscles and remnant aches. The touch slipped from firm pressure into ghostly brushes, an anticipatory claiming along his skin: down his spine, even lighter on his ass — and then back to the knot right in the middle of his back, forcefully prying it into restfulness._

(What the _hell_?)

 _A groan escaped his lips, tempted out not just by the release of that cramp but the slow warm building of another tension below him, Kiros' hands now running up his back, now down his legs, expectant pressure growing between them. He was already half-hard, pressing into the mattress beneath him, not uncomfortably — yet — but enough that his hips hitched as Kiros' fingers teased slowly up the inside of his leg._

 _"Tease." His voice was half-muffled by the pillow._

 _Kiros chuckled behind him. "I can go on with the massage, if you want." His voice was low, husky-soft, and Laguna's hips hitched at the sound of it again, wanting. He felt the touch of Kiros' mouth at the base of his spine, and then again in the middle — harder, there, almost a bite; Laguna arched into the mattress. Kiros worked his way up, and Laguna turned his head clumsily —_ I always feel like such a clown _— and caught his lips, dark-smooth. The kiss was the same: smooth, slipping right into the growing urge between them, Kiros stretched across his back, the full heat of him, a harder heat now pressing into Laguna's leg._

(...They aren't _really going to..._ )

 _"There's something else you could massage," Laguna suggested, and Kiros barked laughter at that, sharp and amused._

 _"You have the worst pillow talk," he replied, and Laguna heard the sound of the small bottle of oil. "It's ridiculously endearing. Now," and Kiros' hand slipped beneath him, hard slick warmth tightening around his cock, caught between him and the mattress at a delightfully appropriate angle. "Is this what you were thinking?"_

(This is a dream (this is the _worst dream ever._ ) and I'm going to wake up soon; it's all right.)

 _"Well," he managed to choke out, as Kiros' fingers moved, distractingly; "actually, no, it wasn't — but you can continue doing this for quite a while... no —_ oh _— complaints here..."_

(...of course not.)

 _"Something else," Kiros said, and his voice was as warm and wet with it as his fingers —and as ruthless, as they twisted around Laguna's length almost teasingly, and_ how was he so nimble _with his hand caught between Laguna's hips and a hotel mattress, body still pressed hot and hard against Laguna's back?_

(That isn't nimble, Rinoa does it all the time when (I don't care, I want to _wake up_ ))

 _"Something else," Kiros mumbled, his hand slipping from Laguna's cock and running, warm-slick, over the curve of his asscheek before teasing, hot and light, against his inner thigh._

(...(fuck.))

 _One slick finger pressed against him — not in, just teasing, pressure right where he wanted more pressure and_ (( _oh my god_ )) _he moaned, trying to sound encouraging_ (he sounds like a moomba in heat), _unable to focus on anything other than that slow movement — Kiros chuckled, the sound deep and rolling and going directly to the base of his spine, hot heat and Kiros' finger gently pressing inside_ , oh _(oh)_. (He wanted to breathe, he wanted to _breathe_ but his body wasn't doing it, he wanted _away, wake up wakeup—)_ _"Yes," and it was mumbled into the pillow, half in his throat and half a breathy gasp that wasn't a sound_ (and half him wanting to pant and panic, urging his brain, his body, to respond, to do something, and getting only this languid melting in response, alien and _good_ , no—).

 _"Well then," Kiros breathed, and Laguna didn't even know why they tried to make conversation; he'd already lost track of it —_ what conversation? _—_ (oh my god, even in _bed_ he is a _moron_ ) — _that finger slid out of him, slick and fast and before he could gasp at it_ (he wanted to gulp in breath) _Kiros was pressing inside of him_ (what? (WHAT?!)) _hard and stretching, slow stretching pressure, so slow_ (not slow enough, no, please, fuck, keep going) — _Laguna gasped at it now:_ it's really tight tonight — (... _I've never done this! Oh, god)_ — _the feeling of being filled, slowly, completely, exquisite slickness_ (this should have echoed in his fingertips and for a breathlessly congruent moment it _did—) he clenched his hands in the sheet_ (— and then it slid away as he wanted to tense and scream and got only—); _sensation, sliding, tingling, waves of heat as the initial pressure subsided into nothing but pleasure: hot, thick, threatening to engulf him—_

Squall woke up—

— _face down in his pillow,_ his hand wrapped around his own cock, hard: _hard,_ so fucking hard it didn't even— his hand was on autopilot; one stroke, two, and his hips shuddered as it left him in one long slow dirtied hiss, pleasure spiking white behind his eyelids. He emptied himself into the mattress, into the sheets, cool and—

 _"Fuck!"_ He sat upright, horrified, throwing himself off the bed in a sudden panic of — of _what_ , he didn't know, because — _it was a dream,_ he realized, slowly, soothingly and emptily, the thought dripping over him tepid-cold, as no one appeared in the bed behind him; no one appeared, taking him from behind and— _"Fuck,"_ he whispered again, standing naked in the middle of his guest room in Esthar. Alone.

Half relieved... and half— empty.

Squall shuddered, and buried his face in his palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! We will be taking a short posting break over the holidays; posting will resume in the new year!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Life Lessons From Laguna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/139517) by [crankyoldman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crankyoldman/pseuds/crankyoldman)
  * [Our Nation of Two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/142886) by [eternalbreath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalbreath/pseuds/eternalbreath)
  * [Baby Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/165991) by [eternalbreath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalbreath/pseuds/eternalbreath)




End file.
